


Elementary 08: The Baker Street Years I (1886-1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Begging, Destiel - Freeform, Dildos, Espionage, F/M, Fake Kidnapping, Gay Sex, Kidnapping, LARPing, London, M/M, Misha's hat, Murder-Suicide, Nightmares, Prophetic Dreams, Revenge, Rough Sex, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Case 20. GOODBYE STRANGER (formerly 'The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton')</b><br/><b>Case 21. SOMETHING WICKED (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Beryl Coronet')</b><br/><b>Case 22. DEAD MAN'S BLOOD (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Second Stain')</b><br/>Case 23. THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT (The Case Of Baron Maupertuis)<br/>Case 24. HELL HOUSE (The Case Of The Amateur Mendicant Society)<br/><b>Case 25. OUT WITH THE OLD (formerly 'The Reigate Puzzle'/'The Adventure Of The Reigate Squires')</b><br/>Case 26. FAMILY REMAINS (The Case Of The Paradol Chamber)<br/><b>Case 27. FRONTIERLAND (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Greek Interpreter')</b><br/>Case 28. THE GREAT ESCAPIST (The Business Of The Politician, The Light-house And The Trained Cormorant)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

This part of Elementary covers the first few cases which we (i.e. Cas) solved from the house that became synonymous with our names, 221B Baker Street, following my dear friend's sudden and (irritatingly) unexplained return to my life in mid 'Eighty-Six. In the three years since his unannounced departure, I would not say I had healed, but I had established a pattern of life which, whilst bland, was tolerable enough. Then without warning, I was swept back into the world of the criminal and corrupt, the brutal and the bizarre, the dark and the dangerous. And through it all I had my Cas, the blue-eyed genius who was equally at home thrusting me up against the wall and taking me raw, or spending the night cuddling me like we were an old married couple.

One day, I told myself. Maybe – almost certainly – not in my lifetime, but one day.

This selection of cases includes the one unpublished case most requested by my faithful readers, namely the one about the lighthouse, the politician and the trained cormorant. The politician whose future prospects have doubtless been ruined by the publication of this story only has himself to blame, as he cannot say he was not strongly warned about the consequences of his actions. Whilst it is not a good thing to ruin another human being, in his case I am prepared to bend that rule just a little, as his actions in this case were downright inhuman.

My story starts in that coldest of winters that saw in eighteen hundred and eighty-six, when a grumpy unmarried thirty-something doctor living a quiet life in a north London street was about to have his world turned upside-down. Or perhaps I should say, the right way up again.


	2. Case 20: Goodbye Stranger (1886)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton'.

I

I was no detective – and that was putting it mildly! - but in this one case I demonstrated that, in certain circumstances, I could sometimes put two and two together and come up with a whole number between 3.9 and 4.1. Though it has to be said that biology and a large slice of luck played an important part in my recognizing that my life was about to be restored to normal. Or at least Cas-normal.

Mr. Balthazar Novak's inexplicable visit to Baker Street, his unseen guest, his actions in opening all the windows during his visit and the vagueness of his sister Mrs. Thompson's subsequent telegram, all combined to raise a hope in my heart that cold year of 'Eighty-Six that just possibly, my room-mate, friend and lover might come back to me. It provided a much-needed boost, for not only was the winter of that year a bitter one, an outbreak of winter flu had disobligingly decided not to live up to its name, persisting well into the following spring. I often returned to Baker Street that spring tired and well past my time, having missed dinner but still hungry. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Mrs. Harvelle's teenage daughter Joanna was one of those to succumb to the outbreak; I naturally treated her for free, otherwise my landlady might not have been so understanding.

It was to the tact and diplomacy (or its complete lack thereof) in the average British teenager that events transpired the way they did. Miss Harvelle had come down with a cold one morning, and her mother not unnaturally feared a return of the still-rampant flu. I checked her before leaving for work, proscribing a course of pastilles which I promised to bring home from the surgery for her. It earned me a teenage scowl which obviously stated that she had hoped to stay home from school as a result of her illness, which as she was barely a month away from her final exams was unlikely. I was replacing some things in my medical bag when she suddenly spoke.

“I saw Mr. Novak yesterday.”

My hopes briefly flickered, before I remembered that she had met Mr. Balthazar Novak (and had been singularly unimpressed, smart girl!). I merely nodded at her news and closed my bag.

“He was talking to that creepy brother of his”, she said. “The one that leers at people.”

Both her mother and I looked sharply at her. She seemed surprised at our sudden interest.

“You saw Cas – the Mr. Novak who lives with me?” I asked, almost breathlessly.

“Yes”, she said, blissfully unaware of what her words were doing to me. “It was on our school trip to the National Gallery. They were stood outside, chatting. Or arguing.”

“You're sure it was him?” her mother asked.

“Of course I'm sure!” she said scornfully. “I only saw him the once, but that coat and that hair are unmistakable!”

My heart sank. So Cas was back in England, and he had chosen not to contact me. My day was ruined.

+~+~+

I spent the rest of the week feeling uncommonly low. My dearest friend, the man whose opinion I valued above all other (even Sammy's, if truth be told) had returned to the country, but was avoiding me. Why?

It was, ironically, an act of kindness from a friend which unexpectedly led me to the answer. Peter Greenwood, concerned at my depression, arranged one day for me to have two patients close to each other, both just off the Strand. He knew how much I liked the small coffee-house that was situated at the top of Whitehall, with a view of Trafalgar Square, and I was grateful for the consideration. Until I rounded the corner and saw none other than Mrs. Thompson, Cas' sister, sat there enjoying a coffee. I almost fell over my feet in surprise, and she spun round at my commotion.

Her horrible blush told me at once that she did indeed know that her brother was back, and that he was avoiding me. She hesitated for what seemed like an age, then beckoned me over. A waitress actually beat me to the table – the service in this place was fantastic! – and I ordered tea and a slice of cake. Mrs. Thompson looked hard at me.

“You know, don't you?” she said softly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“My landlady's daughter saw him talking to his brother, just over the other side of the Square”, I explained.

She stared into her tea, as if the mysteries of the world were therein.

“He wanted to see you, doctor”, she said at last. “He really did. But.... on his way back, this case broke, and Balthazar demanded that he help out.”

“Demanded?” I said harshly, and possibly too loudly judging from the looks I received from nearby tables. I forced myself to calm down. “What right has that waste of space to demand things of someone like Cas?”

“He demanded on behalf of Mr. Gladstone”, she muttered.

I balked at the name of our prime minister (well, until the general election happened, anyway), although I still felt angry that the oleaginous Balthazar Novak was using his position to impinge on my friend in that way. And to deny me his presence. Though maybe not in that order.

“It is a big case, then?” I asked.

“I am not supposed to know”, she said, “except I overheard my mother talking about it. She and Father were arguing. Things have not been the same since.....”

She stopped, and blushed. I patted her hand comfortingly.

“Since whatever it was that caused Cas to sail off to foreign parts”, I finished for her. Cas kept all his personal documents in a tatty brown envelope, and when I had tied up shortly after his departure, I had quickly ascertained that his passport was absent. “Do not worry; I have more than enough of family dramas at work! I think half my cases are illnesses caused by or exacerbated by the patient's family!”

The waitress brought my order, and Mrs. Thompson stood up, ready to go. She seemed to hesitate before looking at me.

“You should read this article about Mr. Milverton, doctor”, she said, far too casually. “I am sure that.... you would find it quite interesting.”

With that, she left. I stared at the newspaper she had left behind, and picked it up. Sure enough, the second article on the front page had a man's silhouette, and headline ran 'Charles Augustus Milverton: London's Most Dangerous Man?'

I read on.

II

Charles Augustus Milverton was, the writer gushed, an impoverished Irish landowner who some years ago had lost out heavily over the government's recent law changes in favour of Catholics in Ireland. He had successfully sued the government and, amazingly, had won; not, I might add, on the general point of law, but because the government lawyer had mishandled the paperwork, and an irate judge had granted Mr. Milverton an obscene sum of money as a punishment. He had invested it wisely, and now had more than enough to maintain himself as a gentleman of quality in London.

Had that been all he had done, it would have been unremarkable enough, but it was strongly implied in the article that Mr. Milverton had a talent for persuading civil servants and other government officials to hand over sensitive documents, which he then sold to whichever foreign government paid him the most. It was not explicitly made clear how this persuasion worked, though there was a clear insinuation that male brothels were somehow involved. Perhaps the lack of explicitness was a blessing, I thought.

The timing, the writer said, could not have been worse, as there had been persistent rumours for over a year of a new secret weapon being developed for the British Army, the details of which any foreign power would pay handsomely for. Quite what this was the paper had no idea, but it considered the arrival of Mr. Milverton in the capital 'darkly propitious'. I put the paper down and sighed. Presumably Cas was in some way dealing with this menace to society, and I wondered how long it would take. And I so wished that I was there to record it for him.

The waitress, God bless the girl, brought me a slice of pie instead of the cake I had absent-mindedly ordered. Perhaps I did go there a little too often?

+~+~+

I had to work that Saturday, which meant Sunday was my sole day of rest. Hence I was not pleased when Mrs. Harvelle told me I had a guest. And when I found the guest to be Mr. Balthazar Novak, I was even less pleased.

“What do you want?” I growled. We neither of us liked each other, and I was in no mood for pleasantries.

He flung himself into Cas's chair, and I bit back an urge to hit him. He watched me curiously.

“You know, don't you?” he asked laconically.

I was frankly tired of the man.

“Yes!” I snapped bitterly. “He's back. He's not here. Any other questions? Good, no. Shut the door on your way out!”

I was scarcely ever rude to people, but something about the man made me wish him gone. Preferably to another continent.

“My brother sent me with a message”, he said, still watching me.

I hesitated.

“Cas?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “He says he is busy on a case. Once it had been brought to a successful conclusion, he will endeavour to see you.”

I felt my hackles rising.

“'Endeavour', will he?” I almost sneered. “Well, thanks a lot!”

“National security does somewhat take priority over the emotional fripperies of some minor city doctor”, my visitor snapped. 

“I just want to know he's all right”, I snapped back. “He's a friend. I care about him.”

The blond man looked at me uncertainly. I could not resist.

“Caring, Mr. Novak!” I almost sneered. “Something the average playboy would know little about!”

“Don't confuse my job with my feelings for my little brother”, Balthazar Novak said testily. “There is little I would not do to protect Cassie.”

“Except call him by his real name”, I could not resist adding.

He rose to his feet.

“I am obviously intruding on your time”, he said haughtily. “As I said, Cassie.... your 'friend' will make contact once his current case is over. You are going to the McConnaughey dinner this evening?”

I blinked at the sudden change of subject. The McConnaugheys were not only the surgery's most important (i.e. richest) patients but also the main reason for its existence. Their funding was very generous, and all they asked in return was the attendance of at least one of the doctors at each of their major social functions. It had been Peter's turn to attend tonight, but after his help in recent days – he had lightened my load and spared me one of our most obnoxious patients, as well as the trip to the coffee-house - I had agreed to stand in for him, resigned to spending several hours in an ill-fitting suit talking with people I would normally cross the street to avoid. I definitely expected another restaurant trip in return, though.

“I am”, I said, not even bothering to wonder how he knew. “What of it?”

He looked at me oddly, and I thought that, for once, he looked almost uncertain.

“Take care, doctor”, he said, before leaving swiftly.

I stared after him in confusion.

+~+~+

Leinster House was as bad as I had remembered it from last time, and even worse, the truly awful Lady Wicklow, Mrs. McConnaughey's sister, ambushed me before I could get my first drink. I bit back a petulant sigh. It was just not my night.

“You are a dark horse, doctor”, she teased, waving over a waiter who, fortunately, had glasses of beer (though disappointingly small ones) on his tray. I grabbed two, not caring if I seemed greedy.

“What do you mean?” I asked, downing the first glass.

She sipped her own drink before answering.

“All London is desperate to have the infamous Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton at their soirées”, she said. “And when Lily cornered him at Lord Nairn's dinner the other day, he initially refused her. That was, until she said that a certain famous detective writer was coming.”

I looked at her in confusion. Then again, perhaps the man was one of those who had liked the stories in the Strand magazine. 

“Well, Lily said that once she mentioned your name, doctor, he said he enjoyed your writings and would definitely make time to attend”, she said. “Oh look, that's him over there, talking to that horrible German!”

Fortunately the general bustle of the party prevented her overly loud voice from carrying too far. She gestured to two people standing by the fireplace. I stared at them for a moment.

“Mr. Milverton is the shorter of the two?” I asked. “We have never met, you see.”

“Shorter but definitely more handsome”, she said, almost leering at the 'special guest'. Some married women had no shame.

I looked again at the two men before me. Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton was in fact of slightly over average height, somewhat portly and with a bushy beard. Most probably an alpha, though it was hard to be sure. His heavily tanned skin suggested he had spent some considerable time outdoors, and definitely not in an English climate. He wore dark glasses, which gave him a somewhat sinister appearance. The other man was a tall anaemic-looking blond beta who, if he had been any slimmer, might have disappeared if he had turned sideways. He had a monocle, and was clearly fond of the sound of his own voice, judging from the fact that he did most of the talking. He also seemed to be standing far too close to his interlocutor.

“Who is the German, then?” I asked. Lady Wicklow knew most things.

“Helmut something-or-other”, she said. “Utterly unpronounceable. He is the stepson of the German ambassador, and something of a playboy. I wish he would not stand so close to poor Mr. Milverton.”

I stared again. The two men were some yards away across the room, but I was sure I could make out....

Annoyingly, a waitress chose that moment to move across my line of sight and offer both men a drink. The short man said something to her which made her laugh, and the taller man frowned for some reason. 

Either I was in some weird dream, or all those theories about parallel universes were not theories any more. I excused myself from Lady Wicklow, and moved across to the window, ostensibly to examine a rather ugly tall black lamp. Unfortunately, before I could turn my attention to the two men, they had parted, moving in different directions. Damnation!

III

I had to use the facilities soon after – whatever was in the beer, it was disinclined to linger in the human body for any length of time, apparently – and they lay down a corridor where one of the lights was not working. Therefore it was dark when I returned to the main hall, and on coming through the door, I found myself emerging right behind Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton. I noted with some surprise that he was wearing one of the modern scented collars, which struck me as decidedly odd. They were usually only worn by omegas, whose alphas usually had them soaked in their mate's scent as a warning to other alphas. Mr. Milverton was clearly not an omega, so why was he wearing one? I moved closer and caught a faint whiff of his scent....

He caught me looking at him, nodded and moved away. I would have followed him, but I immediately found myself face to face with Mr. Balthazar Novak for the second time that day. We were in public, I reminded myself, so I had to be civil. No matter how much it hurt. 

He apparently did not feel the same way, for I found myself steered outside onto the balcony and pushed behind a large and rather ugly stone vase.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he hissed.

“Attending a party”, I said primly. “And trying to avoid getting accosted by passing lounge-lizards. Let me go!”

He gave me a look which said quite clearly 'God give me strength!', before nudging me further out of everyone's sight. I told myself that a fall from the first floor would probably only break a leg at worst. And there was always the prospect that I could drag him over with me.

“What do you want now?” I growled. “Can't I even attend a party without being watched by the Novaks? First you spy on Cas, and now me!”

“What did you see in there?” he demanded.

I am sorry to say that, irked beyond all measure by the man's presence, I decided to play him for a while.

“I did not 'see' anything”, I said cheekily. 

He looked at me in confusion.

“What game are you playing, doctor?” he demanded. “There's national security at stake here. Don't try to play games with me, doctor!”

“Yes, and everyone's expendable”, I growled. “Even little brothers, eh?”

“You're drunk, doctor”, he almost sneered.

I waved my drink at him.

“My fourth”, I said, thinking that even six of those beers would not constitute a normal pint. “I am representing the surgery, you idiot, and....”

Whatever I had been about to say was lost when someone came around the giant vase. It was Mr. Milverton. He looked at us in quiet confusion, but said nothing, which did not surprise me in the least. Mr. Balthazar Novak glared at me, then hurried over and hustled him away.

+~+~+

I was strongly tempted to spend the rest of the evening getting bladdered just to spite Balthazar Novak, but as I had told him, I was the face of the surgery here, and other people's livelihoods depended on my 'playing nice', so to speak. I did however manage to catch several glimpses of my quarry during the evening, and by nine o'clock I considered I had done enough 'glad-handing' to earn my crust. I therefore approached Mrs. McConnaughey to thank her for a wonderful evening (all that lying to patients came in useful at times!), and that I had to get home as I was in the surgery the following morning. I extracted myself as soon as I could and decided to walk back to the house rather than take a cab, spending twenty minutes and letting the cool night air refresh me.

Number 221B Baker Street looked much the same as when I had left it earlier that evening, and there was no-one about as I stumbled up to my rooms, not even turning on the main room light before going to my bedroom and changing into my dressing-gown. I decided a small night-cap and a chapter from my latest novella would be beneficial before turning in, so I returned to the main room and turned on the standing lamp. 

He was sat in his fireside chair, wearing that familiar worn blue dressing-gown and slippers. Large as life, his hair as untidy as ever. Cas.

+~+~+

I stared at my friend in shocked silence, my mouth doing scarily accurate impressions of a fish out of water. He looked at me almost warily, clearly uncertain about his welcome.

“You are back!” I exclaimed, and lumbered across to pull him to his feet and into a hug. It might have been terribly unmanly, but there was no-one around to see, and I had waited three years to see the scruffy little rapscallion.

“Hullo, Dean”, he whispered.

I pulled back, gripping his arms probably a little too tightly.

“Hullo?” I said, my anger swiftly returning. “You disappear for three years without so much as a by-your-leave, then turn up here and just say 'hello'? And that's meant to be all right?”

I was almost shouting by the time I reached the end of my little rant, and he gently prised himself out of my grip and sat me down. There were two hot chocolates on the table by his chair, and watching him ease himself into it was warming me in a way the small fire that had been laid was not. He sipped his chocolate, and looked at me tentatively.

“The case is over”, he said quietly. “Balthazar knows who the spy is, and they will have the papers delivered to them by the end of the week.”

“That Helmut fellow, I suppose”, I said.

He smiled, and shook his head.

“You were at the party”, he observed. “I saw you there.”

I smiled inwardly. For once, I might actually get the better of my friend.

“I know”, I said smugly.

He looked at me in surprise.

“How?” he asked.

I sipped my own chocolate.

“Because, Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton, I know you.”

There was silence between us.

“And Balthazar said you don't notice things!” my friend chuckled. “What gave me away?”

“Your collar, for one thing”, I said. “Why would an alpha or beta wear a scented collar, unless he was afraid that someone at the party might recognize his scent? Someone who, in the past, he had been intimate with? And I remember you saying long ago that you hate wearing starched collars. Plus you have that habit of running your finger around them when you are bored.”

“Lots of people do that”, he pointed out.

“True”, I admitted, “but it reminded me of you, and I kept a watch on you after that. When you did it a second time, I was not far away. I could see the tiny birthmark that you always avoid when you shave.”

“Very good, doctor”, he praised. “Anything else?”

“You were offered a plate of hors d'oeuvres, and you took the time to pick out the sausage roll, which is your favourite. You rearranged the fire-irons because they were very slightly out of place, and that sort of thing irritates you. And you sneezed when talking to Lady Wilmslow because she was doused in lilac water, to which you are slightly allergic.”

He looked impressed. 

“So if Mr. Helmut isn't the spy, who is?” I asked.

IV

“Herr Braunschweig-Udendorf is a playboy after Balthazar's mould, but he is no spy”, he said. “The maid who brought us drinks at the fireside, however, is Fraulein Helga Wittenheim, one of Imperial Germany's top agents in London. We talked briefly later, and she agreed to purchase the plans for the government's new secret weapon.”

“Which, I suppose, does not exist”, I guessed.

“It exists on paper”, he said, “but it will never get off the ground owing to a deliberate mathematical error in the plans. It is, or was, a gliding bomb, capable of being fired like conventional artillery, but the travelling much further than normal. The physical damage caused would be minimal, but the effect on an enemy's morale would be devastating.”

“Did you know about the maid beforehand?” I asked.

“Balthazar had strong suspicions, but nothing tangible. She had never risked endangering herself in this way before.”

“And Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton?”

“The newspapers will shortly report that he was found dead in mysterious circumstances, the day after meeting a shady lady on Westminster Bridge.”

I smiled.

“I really am sorry”, he said. “I so wanted to write to you, but the business I had to take care of was both sudden and urgent. I did not think it would keep me away for three whole years.”

I paused before asking my next question.

“Is it likely to take you away again?”

He hesitated.

“Very unlikely”, he admitted. “I really wish.....”

I leant across and took his long hands in mine. Heavens to Betsy, we were going to have a 'moment. Thank God no-one could see us.

“I am just glad you are back”, I said firmly.

He smiled at me, tentatively at first but then more warmly. 

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, sounding almost unsure.

Of course he was. I could deny him nothing. But I was also an alpha who had been virtually starved of sex for three years, and now that heavenly scent was filling my nostrils, and making me feel light-headed as most of my blood headed south.

“You can always start persuading me again”, I muttered.

He grinned, and reached up for my tie, which he slowly removed. 

“I have waited three years for this”, he said. “Three long, cold years.”

Despite the lack of blood to it, my brain disobligingly chose that moment to remind me about Miss Braeden. I told it to shut up. Cas could not have been wherever he was without succumbing to the temptations of the flesh himself in all that time. He continued to strip me slowly, removing my shirt one button at a time, running his hands over my chest and occasionally tweaking my nipples, making me groan in pleasure. Then I remembered.

“The door!” I managed. “Not locked!”

I am sure Mrs. Harvelle knows better than to come in just now”, he rumbled, and oh my God, it was the Sex Voice that I had missed so much. “That lady can keep a secret better than the Pope's confessor. And if your mind is elsewhere, Dean, perhaps I need to up my game?”

And with that his hand was somehow past my belt and handling my cock. I gasped. This was going too fast.

“Bed!” I managed, proud that I could still manage words when considering the usual incoherent state I was reduced to around this man. 

Somehow he retained his grip on my cock whilst waltzing us slowly back to his room, before I found myself falling back onto his bed. He got me out of my remaining clothes in record time, and I felt his finger pushing at my entrance.

“Cas!” I hissed desperately. “Get inside me! Now!”

“Dean....”

“I need you, Cas!” I almost snarled. “Three years, remember? Get that thing inside of me!”

I was probably heading for some sort of internal injury with my demands just now, and he had the foresight to use some sort of unguent he had on the bedside table (the bastard had planned for this, I realized later) to oil himself up before pushing in in one swift move. My eyes rolled back in my head and I let out a guttural growl, but when he tried to move back, I grabbed him.

“Move!” I growled. 

And boy, he did! No messing about, straight to my prostate like a real missile, striking it time and time again. I should have felt pain, but the sheer bliss of having him back and inside me left me floating somewhere well beyond Cloud Nine. And when he leaned forward and kissed me tenderly whilst still thrusting away, I lost it, coming so hard that I felt the pain in my cock even through the rapture. He continued to kiss me through it, coming himself only seconds later, then falling on top of me in a blissed-out lump.

“So”, he muttered into my neck and he nuzzled back into the place he and he alone belonged. “Did you miss me?”

I would have scowled at me, but moving any muscle right now was agony. Instead I pulled him even closer, and promptly passed out.

+~+~+

In our first case back together, very soon after this, we would encounter an insurance fraud which ended in a cold-blooded murder....


	3. Case 21: Something Wicked (1886)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Something wicked this way comes' is a line spoken by one of the witches in Macbeth, just before the title character enters.  
> Beryl is an odd gemstone; in its pure form it is colourless, but impurities can make it red, orange, yellow, green or blue.

I

“I see that Mr. Novak is back in town.”

I looked up in surprise. Miss Gladys Peabody was our secretary at the surgery, chillingly efficient at both her job and keeping patients in order, but she rarely spoke unless spoken to.

“Is it in the newspaper?” I asked.

She looked at me knowingly.

“You were smiling at Mrs. Grayson”, she said. “Either Mr. Novak is back in town, or you have 'borrowed' the key to the medicine store and boosted yourself up on the happy pills. The key is still in my drawer, so obviously he is back.”

“Good detective work, Miss Peabody”, I sighed. She was not the only one to have spotted my improved mood that morning, though none of the other doctors had guessed why. “Can you send Mr. Fish in, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

I looked at her suspiciously. So what if Cas' return had improved my general demeanour? It made for happier patients, at least. I returned to my room and awaited my next patient.

Mercifully no-one asked about the cushion that had appeared on my chair that same day. Or my somewhat stiff movements around the room.....

+~+~+

“You just missed Balthazar”, Cas said when I returned to our rooms that evening. 

I clutched my hand to my chest in mock agony.

“Oh noes!” I said melodramatically. “However will I cope with the terrible disappointment? Woe is me!”

He shook his head at me, but I could see the smile in his eyes.

“He brought me a paper”, he explained. “Since Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton is due to fall – as in be pushed - off Westminster Bridge tomorrow evening, he thought it advisable that I be seen separately from him, in case someone managed to link the two of us. Though I doubt even the German spy network can match your observational skills, doctor.”

I blushed at the praise.

“How is he going to manage that?” I asked. 

“I am attending a small party at my father's house with some notable guests, and at the same time, an agent disguised as Mr. Milverton will approach a journalist and promise to meet him again on Saturday to discuss 'a matter of great import'. Sadly, of course, that is an appointment Mr. Milverton is destined not to make. A government agent will then report to a passing police officer that he heard a splash in the Thames, and they will find his empty wallet by the side of the river.”

“And the dead body of our soon-to-be-departed 'friend'?” I inquired.

“The newspapers will be told that a cousin subsequently identified the body, and is removing it to his native Ireland”, Cas said. “There are some Milvertons in Queen's County, though the cousin will hale from Dublin. Poor Charles will even get his own headstone, paid for by Her Britannic Majesty's Government!”

“A veritable send-off!” I smiled. “Provided you stay here, I shall not miss him. That beard was atrocious!”

“And the padding was very uncomfortable”, he agreed. “Unlike some people, I found all that extra weight at the front quite unbalancing.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. That innocent look did not deceive me for one minute! I considered a pout, but I was so happy to have him back that I decided against it.

+~+~+

I nearly had a fit the following day when I returned from a walk to find two Castiels in our rooms, before I remembered what my friend had said would happen that evening. Our actor friend left for his appointment, and Cas allowed me to ceremonially burn the spare fake beard in the fireplace. And that was the last the world would ever see of Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton.

“He even had on that a long-coat that looked like yours”, I said, before a thought struck me. I looked across at the hat-stand, which was conspicuously lacking a certain garment. “Your coat?”

He looked surprised at my reaction.

“A perfect copy, down to the slight tear along the back flap”, he said. “The original came back from the laundry today, and I have not yet put it on the stand.”

“Oh”, I said, a little ashamed at my over-reaction. He looked at me curiously.

“You would miss the coat?” he asked, curiously.

I shrugged.

“It is all part of what makes you you”, I said blithely. “The violin, the gun, the pipe, that ridiculous hat....”

“That reminds me”, he cut in. “I cannot find my hat anywhere. Did you lose it during my absence?”

I was sure that, if there was life on the Moon, they could see how red I went at that moment. He looked at me curiously.

“It was one of the few things I had of yours”, I said guiltily. “I kept it in my room, and sometimes I thought....”

I stopped, my blush somehow deepening. It could probably now be seen from Mars!

“Thought what?” he prompted.

“Of you taking me whilst wearing it”, I admitted, wishing I could sink into the room below.

“Oh”, he said.

Fortunately he did not press the matter, and I discovered an urgent letter I had to go out and post. Very urgent. So urgent, I almost fell over the hat-stand on my way out!

+~+~+

I had thought our conversation safely behind me, but when Cas came to my room that evening, he proved me wrong. Having stripped and prepared me, I was laid there eager for him to get on and in, when he suddenly stopped. I pulled my head up from the pillow – and gulped!

He was wearing the damned hat! Gloriously, beautifully naked except that damned hat! He really was trying to kill me.

Then he was inside me, pulling me close to him so the hanging ears on the damned thing flapped against me as he thrust into me. My only thought was that it was hardly surprising some people died during sex, and if the Good Lord were to take me now – well, of course I would have complained, but at least I would have died happy!

II

“I have another case.”

It was a month later, and I had settled into having Cas back in my life almost as if he had not been absent these past three years. My heart leapt at those words, and I looked eagerly across the breakfast table. I had had a full weekend off, and had not wanted to leave 221B, content to just laze around the house. Cas teased me that I would now tolerate even his violin-playing, and duly struck up, but I did not mind, much to his surprise. I was just glad to have him back. Indeed, if I had thought about it, I suppose my reluctance to leave the house was partly due to a fear that he might suddenly disappear on me again. Which was faintly ridiculous.

“Who is it?” I asked. 

“Lady Moreton-Coles wishes to consult me about a possible theft”, he said.

I looked at him in confusion.

“How can you have a 'possible theft'?” I asked dubiously.

“She believes a certain person will attempt to steal her beryl coronet”, he explained. “It is all a little delicate.”

I sighed.

“You do not wish me to be here”, I said, trying to be understanding.

He looked at me in shock.

“Dean!”

I started. He seemed shocked by his own vehemence, judging from the faint blush that appeared. There was an awkward silence between us.

“You know me well enough that, in the unlikely event a case cannot involve you, I would say so directly”, he said eventually, and he sounded almost hurt. “I merely wished to ascertain if you could leave work early one day this week, so you could be here when she calls.”

I felt warmed by his inclusion of me in the matter.

“Wednesdays are usually quiet”, I said. “If I took some extra patients on the other days, I am sure they would let me off a few hours early.”

“Then if you can confirm that with them this morning”, he said, “send me a telegram, and I shall inform Lady Moreton-Coles that she can come here on Wednesday at three.”

+~+~+

I must admit, I rather liked Lady Antonia Moreton-Coles. She was first cousin to the Duchess of Stratford-on-Avon, but rich in her own right, her father having speculated successfully in an assortment of industries. She was known for championing decent conditions for the workers in her husband's factories, and was a financial supporter of, though not an active campaigner for, women's suffrage.

She was also clearly ill-at-ease. Cas sat her down in the fireside chair and took his own seat opposite her, not asking any direct questions. I took the seat at the table, my notebook at the ready. Clearly his tactics worked, for she soon opened up to him. 

“I hardly like to say what I am about to”, she said, looking nervously anywhere but at the detective.

“My lady”, Cas said calmly, “be assured that everything you say in this room is in complete confidence. That is guaranteed.”

That last word seemed to calm the lady, and she took a deep breath before beginning.

“I am sure you know my circumstances, Mr. Novak”, she began. “I am immensely rich in my own right. When I decided to marry David, my father fiercely opposed the match – he believed that only an alpha was good enough for his only daughter – and he only gave in after my future husband agreed to sign a legal document waiving all his rights to my moneys.”

“Such a document might not stand up in court”, Cas observed. 

“With the new law on property, my father's lawyers assured him it would”, she said firmly. “But that is merely background information, though possibly relevant to what has happened in the last few months.”

“Please go on”, Cas said politely. 

She took another deep breath.

“Four months ago, Killigrew, my husband's valet, retired. He was a good man, a beta and very reliable, sometimes inclined to water the whisky, but with servants nowadays one takes what one can get. Unfortunately his replacement, an alpha called Macbeth, worries me.”

Cas looked puzzled.

“An alpha valet?” he asked. “Is that not somewhat unusual?”

“His application said that he has to work to support a brother and sister, both of whom have young families themselves”, she explained. “I was not overly enamoured of him, but the other applicants were all quite intolerable. However, since the man's arrival, David had started getting into what I would call 'bad ways. He is increasingly evasive over money, and I think he has started taking out loans.”

“He cannot do that forever”, I observed.

She nodded.

“Two weeks ago something happened”, she said. "David came to me and said he wanted to actually.... insure my beryl coronet.”

We both looked puzzled. She hastened to explain.

“I have always distrusted insurance agents”, she said, shuddering as she said the word. “A good safe or strong-box is better than paying someone for nothing. But David decided he wanted to insure it for five thousand pounds.”

Cas, of course, was ahead of me.

“You are fearful that your husband may attempt to engineer a fake theft of the coronet, and then claim the insurance”, he said. 

“Yes”, she admitted. “He made the first payment himself, and promised to transfer it over to my name, but he keeps delaying it. I fear he may have the coronet stolen soon, claim the money and then leave me. I do not think he is seeing anyone else, but my female intuition tells me that something bad may be about to happen.”

Cas looked thoughtfully at her.

“It would be very difficult to stop such a theft happening”, he said. “As with most crimes, the advantage always lies with the perpetrator, who can choose the time and place of their strike. Unless, of course, you encouraged it.”

She stared at him in shock.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“What I meant”, he said, “was that you could engineer a situation whereby he had an opportunity to take the coronet, and then have someone ready on hand to catch him or his agent 'in the act', so to speak.”

She sighed unhappily

“I really wish I was wrong about him”, she said, “but perhaps such a thing might prove his innocence, if he does not make an attempt. I will do as you advise, Mr. Novak.”

“Good”, he smiled. “I will think about this some more, then visit you at Granville House tomorrow.”

“But that will alert my husband!”

Cas nodded.

“Precisely”, he said. “It will tell him that if he is going to do anything, it must be soon. And when he learns that I am currently too busy, but will be free in two weeks' time say, then he will have to act sooner rather than later. Either way, you will know, Lady Moreton-Coles, and you will have peace of mind.”

III

The next day, Cas went to Granville House that morning to tell Lady Moreton-Coles (in the presence of her most gossip-prone maid, naturally) that he could not accept her case just now as he had a pressing government matter to attend to, but would call again as soon as he could, shortly after her return from her forthcoming trip to Scotland. She had in turn invited him to a dinner the same evening. 

“Lady Moreton-Coles has told her husband that she does not want to risk taking the coronet on a train, and will entrust it to the bank whilst she is gone her husband are travelling to Scotland in a few days' time”, Cas told me when I had got home. “As I am due to meet with her immediately upon her return, the attempted theft must be made very soon, certainly prior to her departure.”

“Had you not better get ready?” I asked. Having regular hours at the surgery meant that I usually arrived to our rooms at the same time every evening, but occasionally, as tonight, I was sometimes a little late.

“I was waiting for you”, he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Me?” I exclaimed.

He looked as surprised as I felt.

“Of course”, he said, as if it were obvious. “I cannot undertake a case without my trusty sidekick.”

I knew I was blushing, but I felt so warmed at that that I simply did not care. Smiling, I went to get changed.

+~+~+

Granville House was a truly ghastly modern building, which for some inexcusable reason the Moreton-Coleses had had painted pink. Not pastel, but bright rose pink. And not even a tree or eight to tone down the abhorrence. It was truly ghastly!

“Cannot I just stay outside with a paint-pot?” I muttered as we left our cab. “There ought to be a local by-law against such obscenities as that!”

Cas chuckled.

“It is a little.... forward”, he admitted. “I would like to talk with Lord Moreton-Coles before his wife makes her grand entrance.”

“Of course”, I said, following him inside. 

We were duly announced, and Cas led me immediately across to where Lord Moreton-Coles was standing. He was a pasty-faced beta in his mid-twenties, some years younger than his wife, blond and worried-looking. I was a little surprised that standing behind him was presumably the alpha valet in question, Macbeth – servants did not attend dinners, surely? He was younger than I had expected, about the same age as his master although in far better condition, his black hair slicked back into a pony-tail, of all things! When Cas mentioned who we were, I noted an immediate flicker of something in the valet's dark eyes. Alarm? Whatever it was, Lord Moreton-Coles signalled something to him, and he swiftly left us.

“He seems quite young for his post”, Cas observed. 

Lord Moreton-Coles nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “I interviewed several people when my last valet left, all older than him, but none were as qualified. And my wife disliked all of the others.”

Not as much as she dislikes this one now, I thought, but said nothing.

“She will be making her grand entrance shortly”, Lord Moreton-Coles said. “She loves sweeping down the long staircase to descend unto the rabble below.”

“I wish I had been able to help her over her concerns about that coronet of hers”, Cas said ruefully, “but lately I have been extremely busy. And some of my clients.... well, one cannot keep government or royalty waiting, as I am sure you understand. But I have promised her that, upon her return from Scotland, I should be able to give her my full attention.”

Lord Moreton-Coles nodded again.

“She has a bee in her bonnet about me insuring the damned thing”, he said. “I had a jeweller in Bond Street make her a perfect copy of it, but she refuses to wear it. Says it doesn't feel like the real thing.”

“The female of the species can be strange in her ways”, Cas agreed. “Ah, I can see that your wife is crossing the balcony. We shall allow you to go and meet her.”

+~+~+

Dinner was almost over when I noticed Cas, sat to my left, talking to Lady Moreton-Coles.

“You seem a little uncomfortable, my lady”, he observed.

She sighed.

“I am wearing the fake coronet”, she said ruefully. “I know it looks exactly the same as the real one, but it just feels wrong! I think I shall have to go and change it.”

He nodded understandingly, and the gentleman all stood as she left the table. She had barely gone before the butler announced that coffee was being served in the drawing-room. We all filed out, and I noticed Cas looked unusually pensive. I was about to ask him why when there was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from upstairs, swiftly followed by a second.

“Antonia!” Lord Moreton-Coles yelled, and led the charge.

IV

Fortunately, Granville House lay on the edge of the area served by Sergeant Henriksen's station. Even more fortunately, he was on duty. Cas spent some time talking with him outside, then the two joined myself and the Moreton-Coleses in the lounge. The only other person there was Clara, Lady Antonia's maid.

Sergeant Henriksen pulled out a notepad.

“I understand how terrible this must be for you, my lady”, he said gravely, “but it is important that we get a full understanding of the events that transpired this evening whilst memories are still fresh.”

She nodded, and leant back on the couch. I noted that she turned to her maid for comfort, not her husband.

“I went up to change the fake coronet for the real one”, she said, wiping her eyes (a little dramatically, I thought). “I entered the room, and there was this.... figure at the window. I could only see an outline, but he was holding something sparkly...... it must have been the real coronet. He threw it over the balcony and turned and saw me. He had a knife..... I took out my revolver and.... and.....”

She juddered to a halt. 

“We found boot marks in the mud near the wall at the back of your garden”, the sergeant said, “and a fallen brick where it looked as if someone had cleared the wall. So two men, and the second one got away with the real coronet.” He stared warily at Lord Moreton-Coles. “Which, I am led to understand, you just had insured?”

“I did”, the lord said testily. “What are you implying, sergeant?”

“Just getting all the facts, sir.” Henriksen had a sort of blank, thoughtful look that made the average cow look as if it was over-concentrating. “I am sorry it was your valet that was shot.”

Lord Moreton-Coles sniffed.

“I always knew he was a bad lot!” his wife almost hissed. “He would have got away with it if I had not gone back to my room just then.”

Henriksen nodded, and ushered myself and Cas from the room. He led us to the billiard-room, where he leaned against one of the tables.

“If only she'd been there ten seconds earlier, we might still have the bauble”, the sergeant said. “Now that man's confederate has gotten away with it!”

Cas smiled.

“May we go to where the shooting happened?” he asked.

“What do you expect to see there?” the sergeant asked, although he led the way out of the room and over to the stairs. “Whatever it is, I hope it's quick. I've a room full of the great and the good down there who are getting their feathers ruffled about not being allowed to leave. And they're not the sort of people I can afford to upset!”

Cas smiled and shook his head. We made it to Lady Moreton-Coles' room, and once inside, Cas immediately began searching around the dressing-table.

“The body was over by the window, sir”, Henriksen pointed out, clearly puzzled by his actions.

Cas looked at him, then pulled back one of the rugs and pointed. There was a small but notable blood-stain on the wooden floor.

“I would wager”, he said quietly, “that that is from the victim, Macbeth. Probably from the shot that killed him.”

“But that's over ten foot from the window”, I pointed out.

“Exactly”, Cas said. He sat down in the large chair by the bed and pressed his fingers together in thought.

“This was an excellently planned crime”, he said. “One highly able criminal mind, and one unwitting scapegoat who took the fall.”

“The thief got away”, Henriksen pointed out.

To my surprise, Cas laughed.

“When you saw those footprints, Henriksen, what did you notice?” he asked. 

“They were deep”, the sergeant said. “And wet.”

“Precisely.”

The sergeant looked as confused as I felt. Cas sighed.

“Sergeant, it began raining at three-thirty this afternoon, and continued to just after four. There has been no rain since, and a drying wind. Yet apparently rainwater managed to get into footprints made around nine o'clock by a fleeing thief?”

I gasped.

“They were fakes!” I said. “Put there earlier, before the rain.”

“Indeed”, he said, smiling at me. “Someone wished to create the impression that a second man took the coronet. And there was also the loose brick in the wall, yet there is a perfectly serviceable and unlocked gate within sight a little further along. I checked before we arrived.”

I had wondered why Cas had had the cab-driver drop us off at the back of the house and then walked round.

“But Lady Moreton-Coles told us that Macbeth was calling down to someone, and passed him the coronet”, I objected.

He looked at me, clearly willing me to get it. 

“She was lying”, I said. “But why?”

Cas sat back again.

“We know that Lady Moreton-Coles married her husband against the advice of her family”, he said. “That advice, though resented, turned out to be quite correct. Lord Moreton-Coles was a poor husband, and she quickly tired of him. But even with all the paperwork and law on her side, she knew her family would wish to pay him off to go quietly, if only to avoid the publicity. Unless, that is, he was suspected of a crime and there was publicity anyway, in which case they would fight it in court.”

“She plans it well. When her husband's old valet retired, she ensured that her accomplice, the hapless Macbeth, is employed as his replacement, primarily by objecting to any serious rival candidates. She then very publicly makes it clear that she does not like him, so that no-one can suspect their connection. I am afraid she may even have hinted to him that, after the divorce, there might be the prospect of marriage. It was her intention all along, however, that the man should die in a faked theft of the beryl coronet.”

“Faked?” I ventured. “But it was stolen!”

“No”, he said. “The replacement was stolen. The real one, which she now has on, plays no direct part in the crime, so the police will not wish to look at it. Which, sergeant, is where you will find the evidence against her, or at least part of it. I would suggest that you inform her you need to borrow it for a sketch 'for the records' then get a jeweller to examine it. He will vouch that it is real enough.”

He sighed, before continuing.

“She has arranged that Macbeth will make the theft at a certain time. She times it well, going to her room just before, and finding him waiting for her to hand it over. Instead she shoots him – by the dressing-table where the coronet was kept, remember, not the window – then drags his body out and throws it over the balcony. You will remember that we had to break down a locked door, even though she had only gone in to change her coronet.”

“She looks strong enough to haul a man like Macbeth around”, Henriksen admitted. 

“I dare say that if you look hard enough, you will find the boots Macbeth used to make the fake prints”, Cas said. “Lady Moreton-Coles may also find it hard to explain why her husband's valet was shot in one place, and then somehow staggered over, opened a window and threw himself off of a balcony. Though I suspect your real problems will lie further down the line.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Macbeth is dead”, he said. “She is alive, and doubtless a smart lawyer will make sure as much blame as possible is pinned on the evil, conniving valet rather than the poor, defenceless woman in the case. I doubt that you will get a murder conviction, sergeant.”

+~+~+

Cas turned out to be mostly right. When the case did reach court, the first jury hearing it refused to convict on murder, claiming that there was enough doubt as to the lady's full complicity to stop them sending her to the gallows. A second hearing, over a year later, saw her sentenced to jail for the rest of her life, but she still did not pay the ultimate price for murder. It must however have chagrined her that her wealth passed to the husband she had wanted to dispose of. He offered to pay Cas' bill, only for my friend to waive it in favour of his supporting the late Macbeth's family, the brother and sister whom he had been helping to support, and who were totally innocent in the matter. That was so typical of the man.

+~+~+

In our next adventure together, I would inadvertently discover that my friend's generosity extended even further....


	4. Case 22: Dead Man's Blood (1886)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Second Stain'.

I

This case was unusual in that it involved events some three years in the past, and the uncovering of some new evidence which not only threw a new light on what everyone had assumed to be the truth, but threatened to besmirch the characters of three innocent people who, during that time, had been able to move on with their lives. Of course it also brought to light that a fourth person there that fateful day had been the truly guilty one – but which of the four were innocent, and which was guilty? Until the truth emerged, three lives would be blighted by the speculation and innuendo.

This case was also memorable in that it was once again my fellow doctor Peter Greenwood who brought it to my attention, as he was related to one of the four 'accused'. We were the last doctors at the surgery one day, and were sitting down for two well-deserved whiskies when I observed that he looked unusually tired.

“It's my brother”, he said, stifling a yawn. “Have you seen the newspaper today?”

“I have not”, I said. “Cas was looking for an article this morning, and he had thrown the pages all over the room before I got to it. I only hope he has reassembled it for this evening!”

Peter handed me the Times.

“Main article”, he said.

I read where he had pointed, and my eyes widened in recognition. The Brackhampton Hall Affair!

+~+~+

It had happened about six months after Cas' disappearance in 'Eighty-Three, a tragedy at Brackhampton Hall, the Berkshire home of Lord and Lady Milchester. Following dinner, six people had adjourned to a room for a game of poker, after which they had decided to attempt a séance, it being All Hallow's Eve. It had barely been underway when there was the sound of a shot; the lights were turned on, and Lord Milchester's second son Alaric lay dying. His last words were the name of his American friend Nicholas Cartwright, an American who had been staying with the family and had been sat next to him at the table. Cartwright had been tried and found guilty, but the British government had agreed that as an American citizen, the United States government should try him as well, and decide on his final punishment. That punishment had been death by firing-squad.

However, just over a month ago, Cartwright's brother Benjamin, who had previously been thought lost in the open wilds of the western United States, had been found living not far from the west coast. He had of course been unaware of his brother's execution, which turned out to be singularly unfortunate, as he was able to immediately prove his innocence. It emerged (and the subsequent disinterment of his late brother's body confirmed it) that both brothers suffered from an inherent weakness in their blood and bones which made shooting a gun totally impossible, as the recoil would have broken their arms. It was patently clear that Nicholas Cartwright could not have fired the fatal shot. 

“Why does this concern you?” I asked.

“Because my elder brother Rory is the Milchester's doctor, and he was one of the six people in that room”, Peter said gravely. “People will talk. For a doctor, that sort of character stain is deadly. It was bad enough after the murder; he lost a lot of patients, and they did not all come back when Cartwright was convicted. This second stain on his reputation could finish him.”

+~+~+

I was still musing the problem of my colleague's brother when I arrived home that evening, to find Sergeant Henriksen just leaving our rooms. 

“Not a case, I'm afraid, doctor”, he grinned. “The local Boys' Home is doing a raffle, and I was soliciting a donation from Mr. Novak.”

“Then I must certainly buy a ticket”, I said, fishing for my wallet and extracting a note. “I thought they were doing well for funds, though. I had a patient there the other week, and I saw they were completely replacing the roof.”

Years of working with patients who often told only half-truths had made me alert to moments like this. Cas and the sergeant both seemed as if I had caught them out in some way. Henriksen handed me my ticket, thanked me, took the coins and all but fled the room. I looked at my friend.

“What is it?” he asked, far too innocently.

“There is something you are not telling me”, I said. “If it is to do with a case, then of course I understand, but I had hoped....”

“Dean”, he sighed. “I have no case. Unless you wish me to investigate your friend's brother's problems.”

I balked.

“How did you know about that?” I demanded.

Cas waved a (mercifully reassembled) newspaper at me.

“The article mentions that Doctor Rory Greenwood, one of the four suspects as they are now described, has a brother in practice in London. There is also a rather bad sketch, which bears a limited resemblance to your friend. Were you going to ask for my help?”

“Only if you are not busy at the moment”, I muttered.

“I am never too busy to help a friend in need”, he said firmly.

I smiled in gratitude, my questions over Henriksen's strange behaviour forgotten. For the moment....

+~+~+

Our journey to Brackhampton was unusual in that it was to prove my first and last experience of broad-gauge travel – and it was to prove quite an experience! The Great Western Railway had originally been built to a wider gauge (by nearly fifty per cent) than the rest of the country, but the increasing demands to move items across England unhindered by a gauge change had forced them to largely convert to the standard four foot eight and a half inches of elsewhere. However, when our train pulled into Kingsford Junction, I was interested to note that the South Berkshire Railway branch-line train to Brackhampton was still broad-gauge. It may have been barely three miles, but it was far roomier than a normal train, and I silently wished that the conversion had gone the other way. 

We arrived safely in the small market town, and I was glad that the station was actually in the town and not a mile or more from it. We found the two doctors in a small cafe in the centre of town, where the four of us sat down to a pleasant luncheon. 

Rory Greenwood was, I had to say, absolutely nothing like his brother; indeed, had I not known they were siblings, I should never have suspected it. Whilst Peter was a beta of average height and blond, his brother was most definitely an alpha, tall and dark, with something of the air of an undertaker about him. Then again, if I had been subject to the chain of events he had been of late, I should doubtless have looked equally depressed.

“I had another patient quit this morning”, the man said mournfully. “Mrs. Green from Ridings Farm sent a message to say she was cancelling her appointment, as she was seeing a doctor in Marsham. That's nearly twice as far from her house as the town, so I'm sure it's about the case.”

“Unless we find the true murderer of Lord Alaric, then all of you in that room will remain under the shadow of suspicion”, Cas' said, fingering his coffee-cup. “Please describe the people who were there, and then tell me what happened.”

The doctor thought for a moment.

“There were six of us in the room”, he said. “Myself, Lord Alaric and Nicholas Cartwright were three. Cartwright was an American over here for business; a beta and a decent enough chap. Then there was Thomas Wolstenholme. He is an alpha in his fifties, a local councillor for the town, and wants to become its member of parliament. He was selected for the Liberals and has a good chance of success at the forthcoming election, so he is probably just as anxious as me to get the whole thing cleared up. Next there was Lord St. Clair, Vincent I think his first name is. About sixty, a bit of a pompous ass for an alpha, and far too fond of his food, but not a bad sort. I doubt he cares what people think of him, much. And last, Brian Ferrers, the psychic. He is a beta and also a local businessman; he was in the process of buying one of the farms off of Lord Alaric's father. Quite young, I do not think he is much past thirty.”

“Did any of them have any reason to kill Lord Alaric?” Cas asked.

“None that I can see”, the doctor said, scratching his head. “Lord Alaric was a bit of a young jay, but we don't shoot people for that, or the British aristocracy would be decimated!”

I smiled at that.

“There were nine at dinner; the six of us, Lord and Lady Milchester, and Miss Anne Barstow, their ward.”

“Can you describe them to me, please?” Cas interrupted. 

The doctor looked as surprised as I felt, but did so.

“Lord Milchester is forty-eight, an alpha and a member of the House of Lords. Very much your typical aristocrat, but always pays his bills on time, which as a country doctor I have come to appreciate. Lady Milchester is forty-one, and pretty much a female version of her husband. A little terrifying when she loses her temper, I am told, although I have never seen it. Miss Barstow is twenty, and the daughter of an old classmate of Lady Milchester's, Mrs. Edith Barstow. She and her husband died whilst visiting India – her husband had a government post out there, I think – and her will requested Lady Milchester to become guardian to Anne. Alaric was the Milchesters' second son; their eldest Wilfred works in the City and has a house up there.”

“Is she pretty, this Miss Barstow?”

I stared at Cas' in surprise. That seemed an odd question, although judging from the doctor's reddening face, perhaps it had been justified.

II

“It was rumoured that she had taken the fancy of Lord Alaric, but was not receptive to his advances. I think the young buck was annoyed because his mother would not try to persuade Miss Barstow to accept his advances.”

“And you are the family doctor?” Cas asked.

“Yes. They apparently did not like my predecessor in the town, Ralston, and used a London doctor, but both those people retired shortly before the tragic events of that evening, and all three became my patients.”

“I see”, Cas' said. “Pray continue with your recital of what happened that fateful evening.”

“After dinner, the six of us adjourned to play poker for a while”, the doctor said. “Lord Milchester, who had suffered a hunting accident only a month or so before, retired to his room, and his wife went with him, though not before adjuring us to continue as long as we wished. Miss Barstow went to the music-room to play the piano.”

“How do you know that?” Cas asked.

“The music-room lies directly next to the games-room where the six of us were.”

“Is there a connecting door?” Cas asked.

“Yes. We must have played for over an hour. Whitmore, the butler, brought us drinks about halfway through, I recall.”

“Who won?”

“Pardon?” the doctor asked, clearly surprised.

“The poker”, Cas said. “Who was ahead and who was behind?”

The doctor had to think about that for a moment.

“I think Lord Alaric finished some way down”, he said eventually. “He was quite off his game. I was doing the best, I think, though there was little in it. We did not play for high stakes, and only for an hour or so.”

Cas nodded, and the doctor continued with his narrative.

“I remember that Miss Barstow came through the connecting door and spoke to both Cartwright and Lord Alaric”, he said. “It was the young lord who suggested a séance, since Mr. Ferrers was with us. Miss Barstow was still in the room, but did not like the idea, and returned to her playing.”

“Did she close the door behind her?”

The doctor frowned as he tried to remember.

“I think it must have been left ajar”, he said. “The music seemed louder than earlier. Anyway we doused the lights and opened the French doors, to create an atmosphere I suppose. It was quite warm for the end of October. I remember St. John fell over when he returned to the table, and swore. I dreaded we were supposed to hold hands, but Ferrers said that was just an old wives' tale.”

“Were the curtains drawn across the open doors?” Cas asked.

“Almost completely. There was a slight breeze, and I remember them billowing in. We had barely started when there was the flash of a gun going off. It seemed like an age later, but it must have been under half a minute, that Miss Barstow opened the connecting door and light from her room lit up the scene. Lord Alaric had been shot through the heart, and the gun lay in front of young Cartwright. As the papers said, his fingerprints were found on it, though he denied everything. The jury did not believe him.”

“Why did no-one turn on the light?” I wondered.

“It was one of those old-fashioned gas-lights that need a flame to get it started”, the doctor explained. “I think Ferrers was trying to find a match when Miss Barstow opened the door.”

Cas pressed his fingers together in thought. I wondered what his next move would be. 

It was not what I expected.

“I cannot take this case.”

III

The three of us looked at him in shock.

“Why?” I asked.

Cas looked sternly at both the doctors. 

“Gentlemen, your profession entails people telling you things, and then you making a recommendation based on that information”, he said sharply. “So does mine. And when the information is deficient or worse, misleading, the recommendation is likely to be wrong or even counter-productive. Doctor Greenwood, you have not been straight with me.”

The man gasped.

“I assure you, Mr. Novak....”

“You are withholding a key piece of information. I can hardly put a puzzle together if there is a piece missing, can I?”

Rory Greenwood sighed.

“How did you know?”

“Because I can picture a sequence of events that will explain perfectly what happened that evening”, Cas' said, “except something is missing. Two things, but I suspect you can supply one of them, although you have inadvertently hinted at the other. Let us start with this; what did you see happen earlier in the evening?”

The doctor shook his head.

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead”, he said mulishly.

“Doctor, unless we find a murderer, the only things that will be dead is your career, and possibly those of the other innocent parties in that room”, Cas said firmly. “Now please, tell me what you saw.”

I thought he was going to continue to hold back, but Cas' look was his undoing. He sighed heavily.

“Miss Barstow kissing Mr. Cartwright”, he admitted. 

Cas thought again.

“Are there any other doctors in the town?” he asked.

“No”, the doctor said. “Brackhampton is still a small place, and this is the only practice. I purchased a share in it from Ralston four years back, and bought him out when he retired. Though if this goes on, I may have to sell up.”

“I do not think it will go on much further”, Cas said, and I saw the hope light up in the doctor's eyes. “Gentlemen, we have two further calls to make in your fair town, then I think the case may be resolved. Hopefully we can get them both done today, for I think, to my own astonishment, I am actually missing the mess that is London Town!”

+~+~+

Cas stopped at the town's main post office to buy a stamp, and came out with directions to our next stop. It turned out to be a small white cottage, with a beautifully well-kept garden, the home of the retired Doctor Charles Ralston, who now lived there with his sister Marsha. She was a formidable lady and it took some time for even Cas' charm to sidle past her defences. However, she was soon bringing us tea and refreshments, and giving Cas' that doe-eyed look that all women, regardless of their age, seemed wont to do.

How did he do that?

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, doctor”, my friend said.

“The famous detective and his medical cohort-cum-scribe”, Doctor Ralston smiled. “Am I to assume you arrival in our little town is connected with the newspaper speculation about Lord Alaric's real killer?”

“Indeed, sir”, Cas' said. “I appreciate, of course, that doctor-patient confidentiality, which Winchester here goes on about ad nauseam” (I scowled at him for that remark) “precludes you from revealing any patient details, but I was hoping you could confirm a theory of mine. I do not wish for details; a simple yes or no will suffice.”

He handed the doctor a folded piece of paper, which the old man read. His face turned almost purple as he did so, and his hand shook.

“You understand the consequences of this, sir?” he said, his voice breaking as he spoke.

“I do, sir”, Cas' said. “But I also understand the consequences of doing nothing. A number of innocent people stand to risk having their livelihoods ruined by gossip, and only the truth can set them free.”

The old man sighed, and handed back the paper.

“It is true”, he said. “I wish it were not.”

“Thank you”, Cas' said quietly, standing and indicating that we should leave.

+~+~+

“What was all that about?” I asked, nonplussed.

“I did not think I would ever be glad to hear of someone dying”, he said enigmatically. “Come. We must visit Brackhampton Hall.”

+~+~+

Lady Milchester received us with the manners one would expect of the British aristocracy. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Novak”, she said, and I detected a hint of wariness in her voice.

“Did you know?” Cas said.

I started at he question, which seemed blunt to the point of rudeness, but before I could object our how answered.

“Yes”, she said, averting her eyes.

“How?” Cas asked.

“Anne and that young American were about as subtle as the rest of his countrymen”, she said with a small smile. “I caught them on at least two occasions beforehand, or would have, had I not quickly doubled back out of the room they were in. If I saw them, I am sure.... others did too.”

Cas nodded.

“How is your husband?” he asked, almost gently.

“Sickly”, she answered. “That second fall almost did for him. Doctor Greenwood says he will not last the month.”

Cas nodded. She looked at me.

“Has he told you everything yet?” she asked.

“He always keeps me in the dark until the last minute!” I said in a not-sulky tone. She smiled at that, and turned back to Cas.

“I saw him earlier that evening”, she said. “It is partly my fault that that poor young man is dead, and when my time comes, I shall answer for it. I saw Alaric showing him the guns and getting him to handle them. I wondered, but I did nothing.”

“Did you know about Doctor Ralston?” Cas' asked.

“What about Doctor Ralston?” I asked. “I am all at sea here!”

Cas looked at Lady Milchester almost as if he was seeking permission for something. She nodded, and he turned back to me.

“Lord Alaric was not killed”, he explained. “He committed suicide. Except, it was also murder.”

IV

I stared at him, completely lost.

“Some time before the terrible night, Lord Alaric has started to feel unwell”, Cas explained. “He knows his parents never used Doctor Ralston, so he goes to him. He is diagnosed with a fatal disease, and only given a short time to live, most probably about twelve months. Presumably he is told that the disease cannot be passed on, and he fixes his hopes on wooing his mother's ward Miss Barstow, and having a son by her so he can live on through him.”

“But, he soon discovers, Miss Barstow has eyes only for the American Nicholas Cartwright. She would choose a foreign beta over an English alpha! He is angered beyond all measure, and plots revenge – the murder of his rival. Alaric Milchester may be the one to be found shot dead, but it is Nicholas Cartwright who will be executed for a murder he did not commit – and, tragically only to be discovered too late, could not possibly have committed.”

I was shocked.

“He feigns friendship, and even shares his private gun collection with Cartwright before dinner. However, this is a ruse. He not only gets Cartwright's fingerprints on the murder weapon, but also manages to slip the key to the gun cupboard into the man's pocket, where it is discovered the following day. Further damning evidence against him.”

“He has arranged that Mr. Ferrers is invited for the All Hallow's Eve dinner, and it is perfectly natural for him to suggest a séance. As soon as the room is dark enough, he acts. He shoots himself, knowing that Cartwright's fingerprints will be found on the gun, and the gun cupboard key in his pocket. His friend is as good as hung.”

I stared in silence. Lady Milchester stood and walked slowly over to the fireplace.

“You know what I am going to ask of you, Mr, Novak”, she said, her voice unsteady.

“You have it”, he said. “The open window will help; I can use my family connections to feed the press some speculation about a mystery gunman climbing the balcony. Your husband may go to meet his Maker in blissful ignorance of the real sequence of events that evening.”

“Thank you”, she sighed. “Is that all?”

“We are sorry to have troubled you”, he said, sounding sincere as always. “We will take our leave now, Lady Milchester. Good evening.”

He ushered me out.

+~+~+

“So”, I said. “Suicide.”

“And murder”, he said. “It was only chance that exposed the truth, although nearly ruining the lives and careers of three innocent men in the process. Including your friend's brother.”

“Poor Lord Alaric”, I said. “Hating someone enough to want to kill them.”

“First do no harm”, Cas said. 

“The Hippocratic Oath”, I said. “I do not think I could ever hate someone enough to kill them.”

To my surprise, Cas shook his head.

“Everyone has their trigger, doctor”, he said. “Everyone has something, or more usually someone, they care enough about to kill for. Even doctors. We are, every single one of us, only human.”

I thought about that as our cab took us back to the station and the train home. Who did I feel strongly enough about, if anyone, that I would kill for? Was there anyone?

I had an uneasy feeling that I would not like the answer to that question.

V

I had expected to have to wait some time for a train on such a local railway, so I was pleased to see one waiting for us as we entered the platform. Though thinking on it, I was sure the next train had not been due for another hour at least.

“I hired a special”, Cas explained, shutting the carriage door behind me.

Oh. The Voice. I turned to look at him, and he looked positively predatory.

“The Great Western Railway and its satellites are due to do away with broad-gauge in the next five to six years”, he growled. “We may never have another chance to do it on such a train ever again. Seven-foot wide tracks means much more room, Dean!”

I nodded, and began to strip as fast as I could. Of course I could never move as fast as my friend, who was out of his clothes before I was half-done, and had even managed to pull down the blinds; fortunately the setting sun through the cracks still provided enough light to see by. And I knew that the passion and drive he put into solving cases made him even hornier than usual. If that were possible!

He was on me before I could get my shirt off, and I found myself pushed down onto the long seat (thankfully he had also managed to push up the arm-rests, so I could spread out my full length). He rubbed himself up against me, and my erection was almost painful as it pushed against his. Then I felt his finger probing around my entrance, and all coherent thought vanished.

The train chose that moment to start off with a jerk, and I was momentarily distracted, until I felt those clever fingers pressing inside of me. The jerking of the train and his fingers pushing at my prostate proved too much, and to my disappointment I came at once, sighing with relief. 

Except that relief was short-lived. Cas still had four fingers inside me, and with the other hand he was massaging my cock, making me hard again incredibly quickly. I was thirty-four years old, and should not have been able to get it up again so quickly, but praise the Lord, it was happening. I was so focussed on my achievement that I did not notice the fingers had been replaced with something rather larger – until Cas' cock zeroed in on my prostate, and I knew. Oh boy, I knew!

I was all ready to come again, but the bastard, having got me to this point, was massaging me to an even higher state of ecstasy with one hand and firmly grasping the base of my cock with the other, preventing me from ejaculating. I groaned, but I was totally at his mercy, and of mercy it seemed he had precious little. I had tears in my eyes at this point, but they were tears of joy, not pain. Well, perhaps a little of both. I could only pray that the noise of the train was drowning out my keening.

Then he leaned forward and, bastard that he was, teased first one nipple and then another with his tongue. Now that was just mean! He knew I was sensitive there! In retaliation, I clenched my walls around his cock, and for once, managed to catch him off guard. He was coming in seconds, and in his own ecstasy he relaxed his grip on my cock, enabling me to achieve my second release.

“This line is only three miles long”, he whispered to me as he lay on top of me, the blissed-out lump he always became after sex. “But there is a line in Somerset that still uses broad-gauge, and that is twelve miles in length. Would you enjoy that, Dean?”

“Mwah.”

No doubt about it, he was trying to kill me through sex. And I did not have the strength to care.

+~+~+

I was exceptionally sore the following day. There had been an outbreak of whooping-cough at the Boys' Home that Henriksen had been fund-raising for, and I was called out that day to take a look at a particularly serious case. The carriage ride was particularly painful, and I resolved to walk home. 

The Matron of the Home insisted on being present during my examination (much to my young patient's mortification, I might add!), and was clearly keen to hear my prognosis.

“I can find nothing else wrong with young Albert”, I said, ruffling the boy's hair. “I think he must just be naturally more susceptible to the strain that's running through the place. The cough apart, he is in quite good condition.”

I knew from experience how many of these places worked. The late great Charles Dickens had been all too accurate in his portrayal of trustees who took charitable donations for their charges and then lived the high life, leaving the boys or girls in their 'care' starving and ill-clothed. But Albert, like the other boys I had examined here, looked well-fed and happy. And wonder of wonders, even that terminally snail-paced team of British workmen had finished the roof.

“And we all know who we have to thank for that, Albert, don't we?” she said, in that irritating voice that, I knew, was making the boy cringe as much as I myself was. Albert nodded.

“The people who fund this place”, I guessed, closing my bag,

“Dear Mr. Novak, of course”, she said, as if it was obvious. 

“Sir Charles”, I agreed.

She looked at me in astonishment, and flushed bright red. I stared back at her. 

“Not Sir Charles”, I deduced, and if anything she got even redder. “Matron....”

“Not my place to say, sir”, she said, almost dragging Albert out the door. I stared after her in astonishment.

+~+~+

I arrived home to find Sergeant Henriksen waiting for me, but no Cas. I was surprised.

“He is with the Family, sir”, the sergeant said. “Business, he said. He will be back by half-past.”

I looked at the clock, and saw I only had ten minutes to wait. 

“I had a strange encounter at your Boys' Home today”, I said conversationally. “The Matron said that 'Mr. Novak' was funding the place, but when I said Sir Charles, she went very red.”

I stopped. Even with his dark skin, Henriksen was doing exactly the same as the Matron had earlier. He looked hopefully at the door, but I was partly blocking the way, and not inclined to move.

“Tell me what is going on, sergeant”, I demanded. 

“She told you truth, sir”, he said. “Mr. Novak does fund the place. Mr. Castiel Novak.”

I stared in stunned silence.

“The money he has from his family pays for this place, and he spends some of his savings and anything he gets from the cases on the Home, sir”, Henriksen explained. “I'm sorry. I thought he might have told you.”

I heard the distinctive sound of footsteps, and tuneless humming.

“Apparently not”, I managed, and before Cas came through the door, I made my escape to my room to change, two thoughts in my mind.

Why had he not told me? And what else was he keeping secret from me?

+~+~+

The cases were coming thick and fast, now, and in our next one, Cas' took me somewhere that was one of the most depressing places I had ever been....


	5. Case 23: The Kids Are Alright (1886)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Baron Maupertuis and the Netherlands-Sumatra Company'.

I

I had never thought the career of a private detective was particularly glamorous, or that I, as the mere recorder of Cas' more memorable cases, should expect to visit exotic and/or exciting places. Indeed, some of his cases were solved without his ever having left Baker Street. But this particular case took us somewhere that, I have to say, deserved a position on the list of the most depressing places on Earth. Never mind the Sahara Desert, the middle of the Pacific Ocean or the North Pole, Port Victoria Hotel in Kent was right up there.

This was also the case when, by his actions, Cas prevented a kidnapping, told a bare-faced lie, and exposed one of the more unusual criminal types we would ever encounter together. Oh, and also took me on a train ride (standard-gauge, this time) that I will always remember!

+~+~+

“How do you feel about Kent?” my friend asked me over breakfast one day. 

I yawned. Ever since our return from Berkshire, business at the surgery had been hectic, the closure of another surgery a few miles away having vastly increased our workload. It meant money in the bank (which for me was always welcome), but also long hours and little rest. When poor Peter Greenwood had (to his eternal embarrassment) fallen asleep whilst talking to a patient one day, the McConnaugheys had finally been alerted to the situation, and had insisted that each doctor take a full week off to rest, locums (loci?) being brought in to help spread the load. As the most junior doctor I had had to wait until last, but finally my week had come around.

Added to that, it should be said, I would have been lying if I had not admitted to myself that my relationship with Cas was not what it had been prior to his prolonged absence. That and the recent discovery that he had not told me about his funding the local orphanage had made me a little edgy, fearing as to what else he might be keeping from me, and if any part of that would result in his leaving me again.

“It is a large county”, I observed, pulling away from my dark thoughts. “Not just the Garden of England. To which part are you referring?”

Cas waved the letter he had been reading at me.

“This is from the Earl of Medway”, he said. “He requests my services to investigate ongoing threats to kidnap his son and heir, Lord Rotherhithe.”

I frowned.

“Isn't it a bit odd to threaten to kidnap someone?” I asked. “As you've said on more than one occasion, the advantage always lies with the criminal, who can choose time and place of their attack. Forewarning the victim's father seems to nullify that advantage.”

“This situation is somewhat unusual”, Cas said. “He asks me to spend some days at a new hotel he has invested in, a place called Port Victoria on the Hoo Peninsula.”

“I know it”, I said. “It only started up a few years ago. The South Eastern Railway opened it not long back as a rival to Queenborough, across the Medway.”

“It does not sound a promising venture”, Cas said, “but it does mean several days by the sea. I know this is your long-awaited holiday, but... would you be interested in accompanying me?”

He looked as if he actually thought I might refuse. I smiled warmly.

“I would be delighted, my friend”, I said. 

He beamed at me.

+~+~+

Several hours later, I was musing on the price of friendship. We had arrived at Port Victoria and settled into our rooms, which were comfortable enough. But the location... well! 

We had had to change at Gravesend to a little branch-line train, which took an hour (longer than it had taken to reach Gravesend from London!) to rumble its way across the apparently empty Hoo Peninsula, before drawing to a halt on the pier itself. The place had been wreathed in Thames fog, and had looked totally unwelcoming. And judging from the guest-book it was not exactly overbooked, there being only three sets of names and addresses above ours.

Cas wished to meet our client as soon as possible, but unfortunately he had taken his son out for a walk (where, exactly? We were at the end of a pier!). Fortunately we were still changing in our rooms when a message was brought to us to say that they had returned. We duly went down to meet them.

Peregrine, eighth Earl of Medway, was an imposing figure, for all he was not yet forty years of age (and if Cas mentioned my occasional and totally infrequent interest in the society pages again, there was going to be pouting!). An alpha, he had married young and against his father's wishes, but the union had been happy, if bittersweet. The Countess of Medway, originally a shop clerk from London, had given him the much-desired son and heir, but doctors had warned her against further children. Regretfully as it turned out she had failed to heed that advice, and had died giving birth to a daughter, who had also died. The earl was still regarded as a fine social catch, but it was the opinion of the society pages (or the very few that I chanced to read on the rare occasions I may have found myself the vicinity of such articles, and someone could stop smirking right now!) was that he wished to remain single.

His son stood beside him, and was.... well, definitely not imposing, despite also being an alpha. Osric, Lord Rotherhithe, was tall, gangly and very much the adolescent teenager. Eighteen years old, he reminded me a little of Sammy at his age, clearly still growing into his overlong limbs. He was blond, a little pale and clearly someone who was aware of his position in life. Like rather too many young alphas he wore a necklace emphasizing his status, which I always thought suggested the owner was either insecure or suffered from short-term memory loss.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Novak, Doctor Winchester”, the earl said, surprising me by his inclusion of myself. “I am assured by the doctor's works that you practice absolute discretion for your clients, if warranted. This case will certainly merit such.”

Cas nodded.

“Of course”, he said. “How may I be of assistance?”

The earl turned to his son.

“You may leave us now”, he commanded.

Lord Rotherhithe looked as if he were thinking of arguing, but evidently thought the better of it and left. The earl turned back to us.

“Tell me, Mr. Novak”, he said, “what do you know of my family?”

“I rely on my good friend the doctor for society information”, Cas said teasingly. I was almost certainly not putting out that evening, and I managed to shoot a dirty look at him before the earl turned to me.

“Your family has Saxon roots”, I said, “but came to prominence for their part in aiding the escape of the future Charles II after the disaster at Worcester in 1651. When he came to the throne nine years later, he rewarded your ancestor by creating him Earl of Medway. Since then the family has prospered, especially after your late father was wise enough to buy land that he knew would be needed by the expanding railway network in this county. You own Julich Hall, one of the residences of Henry VIII's much-maligned fourth wife Anne of Cleves, and do not attend social events as a rule. Osric is your only son, your wife having died in childbirth fifteen years past. Two years ago Mrs. Eugenia Forth accused you of being the father to her child, but was forced to retract the accusation then it was proven you were in different countries around the time of the conception. You sued for damages, and settled for a large donation to a local charity.”

He stared at me in surprise. Cas chuckled.

“A veritable social encyclopedia!” he smiled. “I am thinking of hiring him out!”

Someone was not getting laid tonight. Laying. Whatever.

“It is a threat to my family that I am concerned about”, the earl said. “It is also one reason I asked to meet here. That and, as the doctor has correctly noted, my dislike for London and society.”

Cas nodded.

“Six months ago”, he began, “I received a letter...”

“What was the date?” Cas interrupted.

“March the eleventh” the nobleman said. “I remember it because in the same post I also received a last-minute invitation to go to the dog-show that had been in all the newspapers. The offending letter was a short note, and it merely said that exactly six months and six days from then, my son would be kidnapped.”

I glanced at the calendar. Today was September the fifteenth. Only two days left.

II

“Was the note signed?” Cas asked.

“Yes, oddly enough. The name was 'Baron Maupertuis'. As I do not socialize, I was had to ask Osric if he knew the name. He did not, but went down the library for me and found out some information. The man is the owner of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company, and a thorn in the British Empire's side. His company is almost certainly involved in what little remaining slave trade there is in the Indian Ocean, despite our naval patrols. The Baron himself is intensely secretive, and it is believed he lives somewhere in Luxembourg.”

Readers will know, of course, that at the time of this story the might of the British Navy, having swept the Atlantic Ocean clear of the evil slave-traders and done the same to much of the Indian Ocean, was now threatening the Mussulman traders in the islands south of Cathay. The progress was impeded only by the fact that, with the rising threat of Germany, London did not wish to alienate the Dutch who controlled most of those islands. 

“Did you keep the note?” Cas asked.

“Sadly, no”, the earl admitted. “I deemed it a hoax, and threw it into the fire.”

“Yet you still got your son to check out the details”, I pointed out.

He smiled at me.

“I only have one son, doctor”, he said. “If anything were to happen to him, the Medway line would die out.”

“Would not someone else inherit the title?” Cas asked.

“The lands, but not the title”, the earl said. “The title can descend by the direct male line only. My estate, should my son - heaven forbid! - predecease me, would go to a cousin in Scotland, whom I have never met. My lawyer tells me he is a quiet beta in his early fifties, married with three children and one grandchild, and works as a clerk in a bank in Edinburgh. I have made provision that he will always be financially secure, of course.”

“Apart from your son, did you tell anyone about the kidnap threat?” Cas asked.

“I did not even tell him”, the earl said. “I merely asked him to investigate the Baron's name, and find out what he could. He did not know I had received a letter, as he was out when it arrived.”

“Tell me about the second letter”, Cas said.

“That arrived two weeks ago, and basically repeated the threat”, the earl said, taking it out of his pocket and handing it to Cas. He looked at it in surprise.

“This is a telegram”, he said, sounding almost accusatory.

“Yes”, the earl said, puzzled. “Is that important?”

“It may be”, Cas said, reading it. “Nothing new in the body of the missive. When did you get the third one?”

The earl looked surprised.

“How did you know I had received a third one?” he demanded.

“You came here for only one reason”, Cas said. “Security. Yet something has happened to make you realize that has not worked. Hence a third communication.”

The earl nodded.

“It was waiting for me on my bed when we got here”, he said, pulling it out of his inside jacket pocket and handing it to Cas.

I knew the implication of that. There was no road access to the hotel, and it was a long walk from the nearest habitation. Which meant that the person who had been in the earl's room was almost certainly either staff or a guest at the hotel. Cas read the letter, but said nothing, although there was a familiar light in his blue eyes which suggested that he had spotted something. He looked at his watch.

“Dinner will be served shortly”, he said. “I think the doctor and I should take the opportunity to view the other guests, my lord. We still have at least one clear day before the 'kidnapping' would be attempted. Let us make good use of it.”

He stood, bowed, and ushered me out and back to our rooms.

+~+~+

He came to my room before I was ready, as I was struggling with my cuff-links.

“Was there something in the third letter?” I asked, finally clicking them into place.

“The message simply iterated the threats from earlier, and again focussed on September the seventeenth”, he said.

I looked at him.

“But you still saw something”, I said.

“You are getting to know me too well”, he smiled. “I will need to send off a telegram to confirm my suspicions, but if I am right, then this case is a very strange one indeed!”

+~+~+

The Port Victoria Hotel was not exactly the Ritz or the Savoy, but it was well-designed, light and airy, and we reached our table before any of the other guests. We ordered dinner, and as it arrived, a whole group of people entered the room, and dispersed to various tables. I recalled the notes I had made from the guest register, and examined each in turn.

At the table next to ours must be Colonel Carnforth and his family. He was a bluff, elderly alpha, about sixty years of age. His pretty wife was considerable younger, little more than forty, and spent much of the meal trying to get their elder sons, all teenagers, to behave. The fraternal twins Albert and Alfred Carnforth looked about eighteen and were clearly betas, and their brother William was a quiet omega of about sixteen. The Colonel had invested some funds in the hotel, I knew, and all his sons attended Stowe, the same school as Lord Osric.

Further away were Miss Mary Colindale and her companion, Miss Augusta Bell. Miss Colindale was about fifty, and had the air of someone who enjoys going to different places so she could subsequently bore her friends to tears about them (I sadly had more than one such patient at the surgery, and had once gone so far at to advise them against talking 'because it might damage their throat'!). She was dressed in a stiff black dress, though she was obviously not in mourning as she wore no veil. Her companion was around thirty years of age, rather plain and clearly subservient to her mistress' every whim. Cas saw me looking, and leaned across.

“There is no reason why our 'Baron' could not be a lady”, he teased.

“We know he lives somewhere in Luxembourg”, I retorted. Cas chuckled.

“Using the name of a known recluse could be a ruse”, he pointed out. Damnation, he was right!

I turned my attention to the third table. The lone alpha sitting there must by deduction be Mr. Sweyn Constantine, from Russian Finland. He was around thirty years of age, with white-blond hair and, unusually, stubble. With his huge figure and eyes almost as blue as Cas', his Viking ancestry clearly showed.

“There is a man who could crush someone with little effort”, I murmured, once the waiter had gone.

“He is a Finnish separatist”, Cas said, spooning far too much sugar into his tea as usual. “He is seeking funds for his country to declare independence from Russia one day. The late Countess of Medway's mother is from Helsinki, so the earl may be sympathetic to his quest.”

“But a ransom for an earl's son would yield a lot more than just a donation”, I pointed out.

Cas was looking at the Carnforth's table, his head tilted to one side. Then he smiled, and looked back at me. I sighed, and carried on with my dinner.

III

We supposedly had one more day of peace before any attempt was to be made on the earl's son, but our breakfast the next day was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the earl himself. 

“It's happening!” he burst out before we could react or ask. “The hotel received a telegram today. 'Require one room for night of September seventeenth, arriving late same evening'. And it's signed 'Maupertuis'!”

He looked panicked. My friend gestured him to take a seat, and reluctantly he did. 

“Where was the telegram sent from?” Cas asked, chewing on a piece of bacon. 

“There is no place of origin”, the earl said. 

“Where is the nearest telegram office after the hotel?”

The earl had to think about that. It calmed him down which, I suspect, may have been Cas' intention.

“Either Gravesend or Sheerness”, he said. “I suppose someone could take the morning train to Gravesend, send it from there, and return after a few hours. Or they could take the ferry across to Queenborough; it has an office. They might even row across; it's not far, and the hotel does have a boat.”

Cas nodded. 

“Do you still think an attempt will be made?” the earl asked anxiously.

“If the telegram I sent yesterday yields results, then I hope it can be averted”, Cas said mildly.

“Hope?” the earl almost shouted.

“Calm down, Your Grace”, Cas said placidly. “I see our Finnish friend has gone for a walk again.”

“What?”

“I think Winchester and I will take the sea air”, Cas said, much to my surprise. “I would like to have a further discussion with you this evening, if I hear back from my inquiry. Would it be possible for Colonel Carnforth and his family to attend?”

“You want Tom's family there?” The earl looked nonplussed. Cas chuckled.

“Teenage boys find this sort of thing interesting”, he said enigmatically. “Come, Winchester.”

I felt like a dog being dragged off by its master, but I followed obediently after him.

+~+~+

If anything, my opinion of the new resort sank even further during my walk. The foggy weather was perhaps not helping, but the long stony shoreline seemed even less interesting close up. And to cap it all, it began to rain just as we were halfway back to the place. We hurried back to the first of the two sets of steps down, the other one being access to the hotel's boat.

I paused at the bottom of the steps, only for Castiel to push me round behind them. Even in the semi-darkness under the pier, I could see the Look in his eyes. I gulped. 

In less than a minute I was standing with my back to one of the pier supports, my trousers and underpants down round my ankles whilst he licked his way up the underside of my rapidly hardening cock. I let out a guttural moan, uncaring who heard us, though I suppose few would have been out in the rain. 

He sniggered at me, and then swallowed me down whole. I knew he had no gag reflex, but even so I was unprepared, and my balls felt painfully tight as I fought the urge to come straight away. Then the bastard actually ticked my balls with his free hand and I was gone, coming wildly down his throat, my body shaking with the effort.

“It's good the way you are always so quick to come”, he observed, wiping his face clear of my come whilst I continued to need the pillar for support. “But perhaps we had better start in training so you can last a bit longer.”

I stared after him in shock, my trousers and underpants still to the floor. He had just reduced me to a quivering wreck, and was now planning on repeating the process. 

Hot damnation!

+~+~+

It took some minutes before I could do the complex procedure of putting one foot in front of the other without falling over, and when I rejoined the sex maniac upstairs, it was to find his desired telegram had come (like me, I suppose). Cas smiled as he read it, and I looked over his shoulder to see what was such good news.

'Stepney Mills paper', I read. Well, that made everything clear. As mud!

He saw my chagrined look, and smiled.

“Chin up, dear friend”, he said. “I doubt you will be able to write this case up for some time, but if you ever do, it will definitely prove one of the more interesting ones.”

I pouted, and followed him down the stairs. 

+~+~+

“My father is feeling tired”, Albert Carnforth said apologetically, “and my mother has adjourned to their rooms. But the three of us would love to hear about your deductions, especially what you are going to do about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Cas asked.

“The kidnapping is due tomorrow”, he said.

Cas smiled knowingly. 

“There will be no kidnapping”, he said. “I am quite sure of that.”

“How?” the earl demanded, as Lord Osric and the two elder Carnforth boys sat down. Cas leant against the fireplace and smiled.

“I and going to recount a small story”, he said. “It concerns a man who feels his country has been badly treated by the tide of history, a tide he thinks he can reverse. But that of course, needs money.”

“Mr. Constantine!” I burst out. To my surprise however, Cas shook his head.

“The country in question is Luxembourg”, he said. “When the old United Provinces fell apart, Luxembourg lost its western, mainly French-speaking part to the new state of Belgium, effectively halving the size of the nation. There are many who deem that an injustice, and few more than Baron Philippe de Maupertuis.”

“His family is ancient, Huguenot but dating all the way back to the Capetians”, Cas continued. “They escaped the French Revolution by buying lands in Luxembourg, only to see most of those lands seized by the new Belgian government after the 1839 revolution. So there is a personal element to his crusade, to add to the rampant nationalism.”

“I do not think, Your Grace, that you were targeted for any personal reason. However, an earl who has only one son and heir is far more likely to pay a ransom than one who has six more in line. Was there not an instance in English history when King Stephen threatened to kill a young William Marshall in front of his father John, only for the latter to scornfully remark he had and for that matter could breed more and better sons?”

“The Baron left his home in the duchy two days ago, and spent yesterday travelling to the port of Flushing, from where he intended to catch the ferry to Queenborough, just across the river from here. However, anticipating such a move, I telegraphed to a particular hotel which I know caters for people of his class, and fortunately my message was delivered to him. His reply confirms that he knows the game is up, and that he cannot attempt any such move. He is returning home, and is probably already there.”

I stared at him in confusion. How did a message about paper convey that?

“That's wonderful, Mr. Novak!” the earl beamed. “You have saved the day! And you shall not find me ungrateful.”

“Thank you, sir”, Cas said. “However, I think you have a rather more pressing concern at this precise moment.”

“What is that?” he asked, puzzled.

“Miss Colindale has decided to return to London this evening, and is taking the charming Miss Bell with her”, Cas said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “If you wish to catch them for, ahem, any reason, you will need to attend to it right away!”

The earl blushed, but excused himself and hurried away. Lord Osric sighed.

“Thank Heavens that's all over!” he said.

“Indeed”, Cas said, sipping his wine before fixing the boy with a stern look. “And you should all be ashamed of yourselves!”

IV

There was a shocked silence, as the boys all stared at him.

“What do you mean, sir?” Albert Carnforth managed in an unsteady voice. Cas turned to Lord Osric.

“That you agreed to let your friends stage a fake kidnapping is shameful!” he said sharply. “Your name is a long and honoured one, yet because you think your father does not grant you a large enough allowance, you may do something like this!”

He was genuinely angry, and all three boys cowered away from him. I simply stared in shock.

“Sir.....” Alfred Carnforth began.

“I know everything”, Cas said mercilessly. “Three mistakes gave you away. First, your father said he did not tell you the date of the attempted kidnapping, yet you, Mr. Albert, told me it is tomorrow. Only the writer of those notes, or one of his confederates, would know that.”

I wondered if the young man was going to faint. He had gone very white.

“Second, you made the mistake of writing the notes at school”, Cas said. “Doubtless you thought it safer than at home, where you might be discovered. However, you were probably not aware of it, but schools always use a specific shade of ink for writing, unavailable to the general public and detectable by those who know how to look for it, as I do. And third, your school is located not far from the Stepney Paper factory, and obtains large quantities of its paper from there. Because of the chemicals they use, the low-quality paper has faint red marks on it, indiscernible except under a magnifying glass. I sent a telegram to the school yesterday, and today they were kind enough to confirm that that indeed is the paper they use. As it is only supplied to them and industrial users, the messages came from the school. I dare say that a search of your bags and rooms would reveal drafts and sheets of similar paper.”

Judging from the redness on all their faces, he was right.

“What are you going to tell father?” Lord Osric asked, staring intently at the carpet.

Cas drew himself up.

“Nothing.”

They all stared at him in shock. As did I. He leant forward.

“But understand this, gentlemen. My friend and I will be keeping an eagle eye on your progress over the coming years, and if there are any further incidents, no matter how small, which suggest that you have taken even the slightest shuffle further along the criminal path, then both your fathers will be informed. That, I guarantee!”

All the boys muttered thank-yous, though none of them could look Cas in the eye, and they all left quickly.

“Was that wise?” I asked. “Letting them get away with it?”

He sighed.

“I know my criminal classes, friend”, he smiled. “They took one venture into criminality, and nearly lost everything. They will not try the path again, whereas if I informed one or both of their fathers, the results would be... unpleasant. Colonel Carnforth would be ashamed of his sons for their actions, and his health is weak enough as it is. The earl would be devastated, but would feel he has to stick with his son, no matter how badly he had behaved. No, this way, everyone has a chance to move on. And perhaps one day, when they have all moved on far enough, you can talk about your story concerning how I averted the end of the peer.”

I looked at him in horror.

“That was just bad!” I protested.

He snickered.

+~+~+

I fully expected Cas to wish to return to London on the evening train, especially as it was his birthday the following day, but to my surprise (and annoyance; I had left his present, a copy of Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson's recent book Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, behind in the capital) he decided to remain one more night in the hotel. Still, the place itself was not too bad, even if the surrounding area was terminally depressing.

I woke that night from a strange dream in which I was being attacked, and was relieved to find that my bed had a familiar fellow-occupant. Looking at the clock, I saw it was just past midnight.

“My thirty-fourth birthday”, he muttered as he tried to clamber inside my skin. “I wanted something special, Doctor Winchester.”

“I am up for that”, I grinned. 

He prepared me gently, and within minutes he was seated inside me. He seemed clingier than usual, but the room was cold, and I was not about to turn down being hugged by a human heater. We both came silently within seconds of each other, and I sighed contentedly.

“So, my present?” he whispered.

“I thought you just had it”, I teased.

“No. I want something rather more.”

I ruffled his hair, though it did not, as usual, make much difference.

“What?” I asked sleepily. Sex normally tired him out, but I was never that far behind. 

He sat up between my legs and reached across to the table. When I saw what he was holding, my heart skipped a beat. It was a dildo, shaped almost exactly like Cas' cock. Cas' fully-erect cock. It had a large base, and was clearly designed to stay in place for some time. I swallowed hard.

“I would like you to wear this all the way back to London tomorrow”, he whispered. “At breakfast with all the other guests, on the bumpy train ride back to the capital, in the carriage to Baker Street – even walking up the stairs to our rooms.”

I gulped.

“I ordered a large apple-pie to be delivered moments after we are due back”, he growled. “If you manage to keep it in all that way, it is yours. And you can even eat it off of my naked chest.”

Yes, no doubt about it. Trying to kill me.

“But if not.... the pie is mine!”

That did it. Dean Winchester was not going to lose out on pie! 

“Get that thing inside of me now!” I demanded.

He prepared me once more, and gently eased it in. I groaned; the bastard had had it designed so the head curved round and was permanently nudging my prostate. If I made it all the way without coming at least once, I deserved a whole damned bakery, not just one pie.

“Perhaps”, he whispered, “one day, we may try this and me. At the same time.”

“I'd like to live to see my next birthday!” I grumbled. But I did not say no, especially as even the thought had me getting hard again. He chuckled that dirty laugh of his, and turned his attentions to my cock once more.

+~+~+

Some points at Dartford proved my undoing on the return journey, and I had to put up with Cas smirking for the rest of the journey. But at least he still let me have my pie anyway! And off of him!

+~+~+

In our next adventure – to which Cas was most definitely not allowed to supply the title! - I would once again see the difference between justice and the law...


	6. Case 24: Hell House (1887)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the Paradol Chamber' (for those un-versed in the spice trade, paradol is what gives the guinea pepper, and to a lesser extent ginger, a sharp taste).

I

This affair, which I can only now reveal to the public, featured one of the most shocking outcomes of all the cases I was privileged enough to undertake with Cas. The details of the case were in themselves brutal enough, but Cas' investigations revealed that what I had been certain was true was not only wrong, but that a fellow human being – and more – could act in such a way. And what made it all the more worse was the fact that, far from acting according to the law of the land, Cas conspired to cover up the truth. And I helped him do it.

But I had better start at the beginning.

+~+~+

The case started shortly after the New Year that was eighteen hundred and eighty-seven had been ushered in, the year which (God willing) would mark fifty years of Queen Victoria on the throne of the British Empire. However, that celebration lay some months and a surprising number of major cases ahead of me that January, and besides, a certain unpleasant set of events some years earlier must first be discussed.

During Cas' three-year absence, I had found it painful when a major case was splashed all over the newspapers, and I could not but help wonder how he would surely have solved it easily. One such was the Easington House Murder in late 'Eighty-Four, almost exactly half-way through his absence. Lady Alicia Easington, the sole daughter of her father the Imperial Office minister Sir Beresford, had recently married a young alpha bank clerk called Mr. Alan Waites, and he had moved into Hill House, one of his new father-in-law's many properties, whilst they sought a place of their own. I remember that Sir Beresford actually wished to sell the place (his wife having died there the year before) along with several other properties, and then retire to Scotland. 

It is also important to mention two other matters. First, Sir Beresford had recently purchased a five-year commission for his only other child, an alpha son Ralph, who was at the time travelling to India to serve with the British Army as a doctor. And secondly, unusually in this day and age, son and daughter were equal co-heirs to the estate, making Lady Alicia a fine catch for the humble Mr. Waites.

Four days after Ralph Easington had left for his new post, tragedy had struck when two masked robbers broke into the house and were surprised by Lady Alicia. She was struck on the head, and died not long after. Efforts to reach Lord Ralph proved initially fruitless, and in the end Sir Beresford reluctantly sent a telegram advising him not to return, as they had had to hold the funeral long before he could have any chance of making the journey home. The widower Mr. Waites moved out of the house as soon as possible, and it had had several owners since, none of them staying for any length of time.

Despite a substantial reward being offered by Sir Beresford, the robbers had not been caught. I remember thinking at the time how I wished Cas had been there to effect his own brand of justice, and clear everything up as he always did. I little dreamed at the time that that was exactly what I would see just three years later, and in such a way as he did.

+~+~+

“I had a visit from a member of the nobility this morning”, Cas said casually as I unwrapped my scarf at the door. It had been snowing heavily all day, and despite my many layers I was freezing, not least because my coat was not that thick. “Sir Beresford Easington.”

I frowned for a moment as I tried to recall the name, but then I remembered. Father to poor Lady Alicia. 

“That unhappy man”, I said. “At least his son is back in the country now; he is taking patients as a locum not far from the surgery.”

Cas looked at me in apparent surprise before seeming to realize something.

“Of course, you missed the paper-boy with your early start today”, he said. “You had better get out of all those wet clothes, and I shall stoke up the fire and pour you a brandy.”

“Thanks, Mother!” I teased. He looked at me warningly.

“I do have other ways to warm you up!” he growled.

I gulped. The Voice. That meant only one thing.....

+~+~+

I finally finished reading the article, and looked across at my friend. He smirked knowingly at me, and I quickly reminded myself that he had a seemingly endless supply of stamina, and could easily initiate Round Three. I was still sore after the morning's activities, when he had made absolutely sure I was up – in both senses – for my early client. Time to focus on the matter in hand.

“Sir Beresford wants your help with this?” I asked curiously. “It does not really seem.... in your line of business.”

“A mysterious and unexplained death?” Cas said, mercifully in his normal voice. “It seems exactly my line of business. But the article does leave out some salient facts. I shall tell you about the case, and you can tell me what you think.”

I nodded, sipped my drink and sat back. The wind was blowing up a storm outside, but with a warm fire and my best friend sat across from me, 221B was a wonderful place to be right now.

“After he sold Hill House and some of his other properties”, he began, “Sir Beresford purchased three new properties. For himself a country estate in Westmorland; for his absent son a house in Bayswater, suitable to host a doctor's practice if he so wished, and for his son-in-law, a house in St. John's Wood, which the latter renamed New Hill House. As I suspect you may have read, Lady Alicia made a will directly after her marriage, apparently without the knowledge of any of her family, including her husband. Her moneys reverted to her father during his lifetime, but he could only touch the interest, although he could use the capital to purchase items for Mr. Waites, hence the new house. Upon her father's death, the capital passed whole to her husband.”

“Surely such a will was open to challenge?” I asked.

“Mr. Waites probably could have done that, but declined so to do”, Cas said. “He seems to have been well rewarded for his reticence, all things considered. To continue. Doctor Ralph Easington was due to serve for five years in British India, but decided to come home after only three. I do not yet know why; perhaps he found it too hard out there, as many do. He returned home two weeks ago, and the dramatic events of last night are what his father came to Baker Street to discuss earlier today.”

“Last night, Doctor Easington was invited round to his brother-in-law's house for dinner. New Hill House was formerly Eastern Promise – I know! - and originally belonged to a Portuguese merchant who had made a fortune in the spice trade before returning to his native land. It was known locally as the House of Spices, which I think is only marginally less atrocious, and each room bears the name of a lucrative herb or spice.”

“Ah!” I said. “That is why the dramatically headlined article referred to a 'Paradol Chamber', then?”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “Dinner proceeded as normal, with just the two men and the servants present. The men adjourned to the smoking-room upstairs – the Cinnamon Chamber - for drinks, and the doctor excused himself to visit the water closet, or as it was in this case, the Ginger Chamber. He returned to find his host lying on the floor, having clearly been strangled. Mr. Waites lay directly in front of a small store-cupboard labelled 'the Paradol Chamber', the door to which was slightly ajar. I should also mention that the French doors were open upon the doctor's return, where they had not been earlier, and that the door into the smoking-room through which he left was also slightly ajar when he re-entered the room. He was sure that he shut it when he left, to keep the warmth in.”

“Did they search this 'Paradol Chamber'?” I asked.

“They did”, Cas said. “The maid, when questioned, said that the cupboard was usually locked, and that the master and housekeeper both had keys, although the housekeeper was then dining with some of the rest of the staff downstairs. A later search revealed only one unusual item in the cupboard, namely a skull. Not a real one, I might add, but the sort purchased from theatrical shops.”

“Strangled”, I said thoughtfully. “Probably by someone who escaped via the French doors.”

“It looks that way”, Cas suggested. “The maid who took the food in and out at dinner said both men seemed perfectly relaxed, and the butler said they were talking amiably as he brought in their coffees to the smoking-room. Doctor Easington seemingly had no motive to kill his brother-in-law.”

“No-one heard anything?” I asked.

“The smoking-room is at the side of the house, for privacy”, Cas said. “Sir Beresford has arranged that, if you agree, you can sit in on the post mortem. I know police doctors are good, but I would prefer to have someone whose judgement is unimpeachable in this matter. Certainly someone more professional than this godforsaken newspaper writer, who chose 'Hell House 2' as his title!”

“Of course”, I smiled.

II

“Well?” Cas asked as I pulled my gloves on.

I had just finished helping to examine the body of the late Alan Waites, Esquire, and had found – well, something very odd.

“Was he strangled?” my friend asked.

I looked at him oddly.

“Undoubtedly”, I said. “Except I doubt that that was what killed him.”

“Dean!”

“He was stabbed”, I said. “With an exceedingly fine instrument, quite possibly a stiletto knife. Not only that, it was almost certainly done by a professional.”

“How do you know that?” he challenged.

“Because the entry wound is exactly in the one spot that would kill him as quickly as possible”, I said. “I would guess that he was strangled afterwards, in an attempt to hide it.”

“That does not make sense”, my friend said, frowning. “If we assume an outside attacker, they must know that the doctor would only be away for a few minutes at most, assuming they were listening in. The water closet is directly across the hall from the smoking-room. Why risk discovery in trying to hide the crime in that way?”

I thought for a moment.

“I do not like to cast aspersions”, I said slowly, “but is it possible that the 'bad people' his brother has reputedly fallen in with contain some Italian criminals? People who are expert in this sort of weapon?”

He seemed to be thinking about my words.

“One more thing”, I said. “He also used some strange shaving cream. Even now, I could still smell it on his face and neck, so he must have used it copiously. Something herbal, by the odour.”

"Ah", Cas said knowingly.

I hated it when he did that!

+~+~+

Doctor Ralph Easington was a large man, jovial and welcoming. I could see why he would make a good addition to our profession. Cas asked him if he had also been the victim's doctor.

“No”, he said, “but I did make up some shaving cream for him. Alan had a very severe reaction when he tackled some ivy around his window last week, and normal shaving cream made his rash even worse. I gave him a herbal preparation, which didn't have any side-effects. Is there a problem?”

“Your father merely wishes us to clarify exactly how his son-in-law died”, Cas said politely. “Do you happen to have any of that preparation here?”

“Sadly no”, he said. “It's quite potent, so I only make it up rarely, and would only let Alan have one jar at a time. He quite liked the smell, oddly enough, which I could not stand! But I only gave him the first jar last week, so he should still have it. Or his servants should.”

“We shall check that out”, Cas said. He paused before continuing. “Mr. Waites did not seem troubled at all at your dinner?”

The doctor hesitated.

“He was concerned about his brother Simon”, he admitted almost reluctantly. “A nasty piece of work by all accounts, though as a doctor I should not say such things. One of those betas who thinks he is better than he actually is.”

“Doctors are only human”, Cas smiled, shooting a glance at me.

“Simon had wanted to move into the house with him, and he refused”, the doctor said. “Families are difficult things. I suppose he will inherit the house anyway, now.”

“I do hope he was not counting on that”, Cas said. “I have spoken with your father, and he told me that the will of the late Lady Alicia includes what I believe is termed a 'timed clause', which meant that should her husband not outlive her by at least five years, then all the capital which was bequeathed to him should revert back to her family.”

“Then he may be in for a disappointment”, the doctor smiled. “From what I know of him, it could hardly happen to a less nice person!”

+~+~+

The following day, Cas received a visit from Sir Beresford. The nobleman looked at me suspiciously.

“You're not writing up this case, are you, doctor?” he demanded.

“Every case I write is done so only with the approval of both my friend and those involved in the case”, I said. “That includes relatives and friends of both criminals and victims.”

To my surprise, he chuckled.

“I just read your writings of the mysterious Charles Augustus Milverton”, he smiled, looking at Cas before turning back to me. “It was odd to see you playing the detective for once!”

I smiled.

“The case progresses”, Cas said, “but we are some way from a conclusion as yet. Thank you for coming here today. I wished to ask you a question, my lord.”

“Of course.”

“Were there any developments, any happenings at all relating to the unfortunate killing of your daughter, that occurred in the past few weeks?”

“Mr. Novak....”

“I would not ask”, Cas pressed, “but I have a sense for when I am missing a key piece of information. And right now, that is what I feel.”

The nobleman slowly nodded.

“All right”, he said. “Funny you should ask that, because two things happened recently, apart from my son's return from the back of beyond. The first was that Mary Elliston died about two months ago.”

“Who was she, pray?”

“The housemaid at the time of the attack”, the earl said. “As you know, she encountered the two killers, and one of them struck her before fleeing. Unfortunately they were both wearing masks, so when she eventually came round she could tell us nothing. She retired to the North after the attack to live with her sister, in her cottage on my new Westmorland estate. Her sister wrote and told me; natural causes, she said.”

“I see”, Cas said. “And the other thing?”

The nobleman hesitated.

“The Metropolitan Police contacted me this morning”, he said. “Simon Waites, my brother-in-law's brother, was found dead in his room in Soho. He had apparently committed suicide, the night after his brother's death. He left a note, admitting that he had killed Alan over an argument, and that he did not wish to carry on. He said that he came through the French doors and stabbed him from behind, then left via the back garden.”

“Another death”, I muttered.

“I see”, Cas said. He pressed his long fingers together and thought for some time before speaking again. “Sir Beresford, Doctor Winchester and I will need to make a trip to bring this matter to a conclusion. We will be gone for only two days, though. If you would care to come round this Sunday, I fully expect to be able to explain all to you.”

“All?” the nobleman asked hopefully. “Even my daughter's murder?”

“That will be tricky”, Cas admitted. “But I may be able to offer you some news about your daughter's killers, even if bringing them to justice is... problematic.”

The nobleman stared at him in confusion, but then nodded and bade us goodbye. I looked at my friend.

“Your surgery would be able to function without you for two days?” he asked.

“They would”, I said. “Where are we going?”

“Westmorland!” he grinned.

III

We caught an afternoon train out of Euston that, fortuitously, stopped at Oxenholme on its way to Glasgow. Cas had managed to wire ahead, and after a short journey on an antiquated branch-line train that took us to the town of Bowness, we were met by a trap which took us to the Lady Jane Gray Hotel. Cas told me he hoped to have everything sorted quickly so that we could take a train back around mid-day tomorrow, and be back in London for the weekend.

“Sir Beresford's estate is not far from here”, he said, “but I did not wish to trouble him. The hotel is technically closed for winter, but apparently fame and fortune can open many doors.”

“You deserve it”, I said. 

He looked askance at me.

“I meant your name, Dean”, he said. “A famous novelist staying at a hotel in the middle of nowhere, out of season? I do not doubt all the staff will be wanting you to sign their magazines and books!”

I scowled at him. It was true that the public reaction to the case of Charles Augustus Milverton had been very positive, but I was not famous, and never would be.

“I am just looking forward to a resolution of this case”, I said. “Preferably before it involves any more dead bodies!”

He smiled his 'eyes-crinkling-at-the-edges' smile, the one I knew to be real, not the one he kept for clients.

“Tomorrow, my friend”, he promised.

+~+~+

England is not a large country, but the North is noticeably colder, and in winter that difference is only exacerbated. I woke the following morning to find, as on so many mornings at Baker Street, that a blue-eyed human octopus had somehow got into my bed during the night and wrapped itself tightly around me. Not only that, the reason I had awoken when I had was because he was rutting against me in his sleep!

“Cas!” I whispered.

Yes, it was wonderfully warm, and yes, Little Dean was certainly up (in both senses), but honestly, I was barely awake. 

“Cas!” I said again, this time more urgently.

I was still not getting through to him, and as usual at times like this, I was losing any sense of urgency at being mauled in this way. His rutting got steadily faster and more desperate, and I found myself being dragged along for the ride. In fact I even beat him to orgasm (just), coming between us seconds before he did. 

I was still coming down from Cloud Nine when I felt him nibbling at my neck. I do not know why, but he always loved to nuzzle there, perhaps just taking in my scent. Unfortunately my post-coital bliss had to be curtailed as I needed the toilet, and fortunately I was able to escape from the now sated human octopus and make it to the (relative) safety of the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, and sighed. I always felt that, after any encounter with Cas, my body just radiated a message as to what I had done for all and sundry to see...

I squinted into the mirror. Ye Gods, was that a love-bite?

“Cas!” I yelled.

Through the partly open bathroom door, I was sure I could hear a snigger.

+~+~+

Later that day a trap took us the short distance across the border into Cumberland, and to a small but well-kept cottage. Cas smirked as I kept repeatedly running my finger round the inside of my collar; it barely covered the love-bite, and I did not want people thinking that I was the sort of alpha who liked playing the omega, rolling over and taking it whenever my mate demanded.

It may have been true, but I did not want people to think that!

Cas led me up to the cottage door, and knocked politely. It was opened by an elderly lady dressed in black, who stared suspiciously at us.

“It's all right, Annie”, came a voice from the cottage's one and probably only large room. “I am expecting these gentlemen.”

'Annie' gave us a warning look which said quite clearly 'Gentlemen?', but nodded curtly to us, bade us enter, and left in silence. Cas walked over to the fireplace, and ran his hand against a framed photograph of two ladies.

“Sir Beresford had that done for us on Mary's retirement.”

The lady who spoke was also elderly, but much thinner and attired in mourning clothes. She was sat by the fire, which gave precious little warmth in the cold winter air. Her visitor had at least left out a warm pot of tea and some cake, which she kindly offered to us. I took a chair at the table, whilst Cas sat opposite her. 

“Miss Margaret Elliston”, he said politely.

“Mary loved your writings, doctor”, she said. “Despite all the dark things, she said that the light of human goodness shone through both of you. When I had the telegram telling me of your impending arrival, I was alarmed, yes, but I think I can trust you both.”

Cas leaned forward.

“I shall endeavour to make it easier for you by telling the tale myself”, he said. “I know most of it, and if I go wrong, I am sure you will correct me.”

She nodded her agreement, and he began.

“When your sister told Sir Beresford that she wished to retire here”, Cas began, “she omitted to tell him one of her reasons. I do not know how, but something happened to make her realize exactly who at least one of Lady Alicia's two killers were, and by implication who the other one must therefore have been.”

She nodded again.

“He used a powerful scented soap”, she said. “Lavender and rhododendron. When he struck her at the house, she smelled it, but of course it was only when she chanced to meet him again that she realized. She panicked, and quit her post. I did try to get her to approach the authorities, but she was terrified in case he came after her, too. All the worry hastened her end, I think.”

“Scent can be a powerful way of triggering memory”, I said. “But who were the killers, then?”

IV

“Alan and Simon Waites”, Cas said calmly.

“What?” I almost shouted. “Lady Alicia's own husband?”

“Remember that he did not know about her will”, Cas said. “That must have been a terrible moment for him, finding out that he had killed for possibly nothing. But he still got a house out of it, and the only possible danger after that was his wayward brother. Or so he thought.”

He turned back to Miss Elliston.

“Your sister may have left her job”, he said, “but she was a lady of stout moral character. She managed to get a message to Doctor Easington in India. I doubt she actually told him much, but it was enough to have him buy out the last two years of his commission, and return home at once. He came here, and she told him all.”

She sighed.

“Two evil men thought they had got away with murder”, Cas went on, “but now an avenging angel was on their trail. Doctor Easington had certain advantages in what he sought to do. He first dosed a shaving cream that introduced certain drugs into Mr. Alan Waites' body. These only had the effect of making the victim slow and sluggish after a heavy meal, which when you intend to murder someone is a definite advantage.”

“Some time during the evening, the doctor finds an excuse to move behind his victim. He has in his pocket a surgical knife – sharper even than a stiletto, doctor – and he knows exactly where to stab his victim to cause almost instant death. I strongly suspect that, in those final moments of lucidity, the doctor told him the reasons for his action, and that Nemesis was finally catching up with him.”

“He now sets the scene. The body is dragged over to the Paradol Chamber, which is left open, and the skull placed inside. If the police take it as a clumsy attempt to implicate the doctor, then all well and good. The French doors are opened, to imply an outside killer; I dare say had the police done their job more thoroughly, they would have located an obliging set of footprints leading to and from the house. The doctor then strangles a dead man, hoping that any post mortem would not notice; perhaps he uses some unguent to lessen the marks. I am sure that he uses gloves. He knows that, since drinks have been served, no servants will enter the smoking-room unless summoned. Therefore he can go to the water-closet in safety.”

“He leaves the door ajar, and watches and waits for a servant to pass. When he sees one coming, he re-enters the room, and cries out at the sight of the body of the man he has just killed. Naturally the unwitting witness comes running, and he has a near-perfect alibi, who will swear they saw him enter the room seconds earlier. I am sure that he also remembers to swap the vial of drugged shaving-cream for a regular one. The police come, take notes, and decide that Mr. Alan Waites was killed by an outside killer.”

Cas hesitated.

“The doctor does one more thing before leaving the House of Spices”, he said slowly. “He takes Mr. Alan Waites' revolver with him.”

I shuddered. I could see where this was leading.

“He goes to Mr. Simon Waites' house, and is admitted. Mr. Simon has no reason to be wary of his brother's brother-in-law. Not up to the moment that that person shoots him in the head. Three years late, but the dark deeds done at the first 'Hell House' are finally avenged. The doctor leaves a suicide note, and departs, his work done.”

She sighed. There was a long pause.

“I do not doubt”, Cas said gravely, “that the doctor discussed his plans with you beforehand, Miss Elliston. Your sister acted as an emissary of justice, employing a man to do the work she felt needed doing. I would only ask one question of you, if I may? Did the doctor tell you what he intended to do after all of this?”

She nodded.

“He plans to return to British India”, she said. “And to stay there. But now.....”

Cas suddenly stood up. I stared I surprise.

“Thank you very much for your time and patience, Miss Elliston”, he said. “The doctor and I will now return to our hotel to pack, and this afternoon we shall take the train back to London.”

She looked at us, almost hopefully.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Provided Doctor Easington returns to British India, nothing”, Cas said. “Of course his father must be apprised of events, but I doubt he will want to push matters. I was brought in on this case to pursue justice, and since justice has been meted out, I am no longer needed. Thank you for the tea and cakes.”

He kissed her hand, and ushered me out.

+~+~+

“You are letting a killer get away?” I asked, shocked. “And a doctor? What happened to 'first do no harm'?”

We were stood on Oxenholme Station, waiting for our London express. He turned to me, looking sad.

“Consider the alternatives, Dean”, he said quietly. “If I advance the case, who actually gains? Cui bono? The publicity would destroy Sir Beresford, the press may even hound poor Miss Elliston, who is quite innocent. You know full well that twelve good men and true would rightly refuse to convict a man who killed his sister's killers, knowing that the death penalty would be the punishment. Not to mention that your fellow doctor would be ruined by the resultant publicity. A veritable ton of troubles all round, for no gain. Now consider what I am doing, even if it is nothing. British India gets a fine doctor, who will work out his penance and then some, and the family are left in peace. Which, would you say, is the better way?”

I pouted. I still felt that allowing a doctor who killed to go free was wrong, but I could not fault his logic. Damn the man!

“Do not pout, Dean. Or our train ride home with be quite rough!”

I gulped. The Voice was back. If I pouted again, I knew what would happen to me.

I pouted again

+~+~+

Seven hours later, I was walking down Platform One of Euston Station, limping noticeably. The journey had indeed been 'rough'. And Cas had been rougher! Oh my poor, aching backside!

+~+~+

Our next adventure would involve a truly Valiant man. And another truly dreadful title suggestion by my 'friend', who would do something that would endanger his own life!


	7. Case 25: Out With The Old (1887)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Reigate Puzzle'; later amended to 'The Adventure of the Reigate Squires'.

I

Cas was my best friend, and I truly valued that friendship. And I understood that friendship sometimes demands sacrifices. But if he insisted on keeping That Photograph out on public display, he was going to end up investigating his own murder from his own grave! Though as I will later describe, he did go some way towards making it up to me. And no, nor did I welcome his suggestion that this story be titled 'Death by Knight'! Sometimes I wondered what I saw in him!

Only sometimes, though.

+~+~+

“It seems as if I shall have to venture to the fair county of Surrey”, Cas observed over breakfast one morning.

It was a month since our return from Westmorland, and things were still not quite back to normal between us. Whilst I had to admit that my friend's solution to the Easington murders had been the best (or least worst) one, I still chafed at letting a murderer escape the consequences of his actions. Cas had been edgy around me as a result, and as February had ground its cold, weary way past, we were still talking relatively little. I could even detect his reticence during our couplings, which irked me as I had no idea as to how to put things right. Nevertheless, this sounded like a case, and my interest was piqued.

“Where in Surrey?” I asked.

“The fair town of Reigate”, he said. He looked at me almost cautiously. “Constable Henriksen requests my presence in a case.”

“Constable Henriksen?” I asked, confused. “Has he been demoted as well as sent to the country?”

“No”, Cas said. “Constable Valiant Henriksen – I know, I know – and he is our friend Victor's nephew. Victor's brother Vincent is also a policeman who lives and works in nearby Guildford, and his son has followed the family tradition of service.”

“Have you met this young man before?” I asked.

“Only once”, Cas said. “Victor brought him round just before his eighteenth birthday. The lad looks nothing like his uncle, but he is sharp as a knife, though I fear country prejudices may harm his long-term career prospects. I am quite surprised that this case had not reached the London press, although this mining disaster in the Rhondda Valleys is quite rightly still dominating the papers.”

“What is the case?” I asked, curious but still feeling a little cross with him. It was irrational, but then human pride often is.

“It looks simple on the surface”, he said. “It revolves around the commemorations this year to mark the meeting of the barons in the town prior to their forcing King John to sign Magna Carta. The history is questionable, but the results of their marking it are not. There was a full-sized medieval tournament there, with local lords dressed up as knights, and including a banquet. A live-action role-play. someone called it."”

“I see”, I said. “What happened?”

“At the banquet, each group of three knights was served by their own personal squire”, Cas explained. “In one tent, the three 'knights' – all alphas - were Mr. Rawlinson, a local businessman, Mr. Fisher, who owns several farms in the area, and Lord Abinger, who owns the single largest estate to the west of the town. They were served at their table only by their squires, Rawlinson's alpha son Joshua, Fisher's beta nephew Albert Tague, and Lord Abinger's alpha son, Michael. After dinner they went out to watch a torch-lit mini-tournament, and after approximately ten minutes Lord Abinger suddenly collapsed. He died on his way to the hospital.”

“How?” I asked, puzzled.

“It was initially thought he had collapsed due to his insisting on wearing a heavy medieval uniform”, Cas said. “He was not a fit man. But a post mortem clearly established that he had been poisoned, and only a few hours before his death. Clearly the only meal he had had was the one served by his squire and his squire's friends, so that would seem to be where the poison must have come from. Furthermore, there were traces of poison on his hands.”

“That should narrow things down”, I said. 

Cas shook his head.

“It was a medieval banquet”, he reminded me. “They ate all the foods with their hands. The interesting thing is that whilst their food was kept separate from everyone else's, no-one would have been able to ensure which of the three 'knights' ate what. It all appears to be a very random way of committing murder.”

“Tell me about the knights and squires”, I said, interested.

“Mr. Jacob Rawlinson is a successful fish merchant”, Cas said, “who had just opened up a second shop in nearby Redhill. He was known to be on poor terms with his son Joshua, whose wild behaviour had led his father to threaten to disinherit him on more than one occasion. Rawlinson Senior has three other sons, two of whom are alphas, so it is not as if there is no alternative.”

“Motive, but no dead body”, I said.

“Mr. Thomas Fisher is, surprisingly, the richest of the three. Astute purchasing of farmland close to the town has enabled him to sell it on as building land for a sizeable profit each time. He is not well-liked, and has the reputation of being a harsh landlord to his tenants. He is the only unmarried one of the three, and his nephew Albert Tague had recently moved down from London, and is widely regarded as a potential heir. They apparently get on well together possibly because young Tague stands to inherit money anyway, as his stepfather, a Mr. Burstow, is rich in his own right. Tague and Rawlinson Junior both attend the same school in town.”

“And Michael Abinger?” I asked.

“He attends Christ's Hospital”, Cas said, “but was summoned home for this event. It was only one day, and Lord Abinger made a generous donation to the school when they originally decided to accept his son – after, not before, I hasten to add - so they did not object. Young Michael Abinger is very much the dutiful son when his father is around, but Constable Henriksen writes that local gossip says he is somewhat different when amongst his peers.”

“Motive, and a dead body”, I said. “He will inherit the estate.”

Cas shook his head.

“He is the second son”, he said. “His older brother Mark is the new Lord Abinger, and although Michael does get the subsidiary title of Lord Ifield, there are no lands or money to go with it. And his older brother is already married with one young son of his own and a second child on the way.”

“It looks like the wrong 'knight' died, then”, I observed.

My friend looked at me curiously.

“Indeed”, he said, and I had the distinct impression he had wanted to say something else. “I shall be travelling down to Reigate this Friday afternoon. Would you be able to accompany me?”

“Of course”, I smiled.

I had no idea at the time just how potentially humiliating this case would end up being. For me personally!

II

We left Victoria Station just after lunch, and were met by Constable Valiant Henriksen off the train at Redhill. He was indeed physically very unlike our sergeant friend; a massive alpha in his early twenties and well over six foot tall, much more muscular than his beefy uncle. His skin colour only vaguely hinted at his Caribbean ancestry, being almost as pale as the natives. His face was hawkish rather than his uncle's round one, and although I have little time for the pseudo-science that is phrenology, I would have to have admitted that he did look quite intelligent.

“Thank you for coming, both of you”, he said, and his voice had the pleasant Surrey burr. “This case....”

“Your uncle mentioned a superior who was being difficult?” Cas said gently.

The constable nodded.

“Sergeant Lane does not like me because of my skin colour”, he said. “He knows there is a post coming up for another sergeant at Redhill soon, and that I may be considered, but he wants his nephew Brown to get it. He only let me keep this high-profile case because he was sure I would fail to solve it. I fear he may be right.”

“Then we must do our best to prove him wrong”, Cas said firmly. “You have managed to get us rooms at a local hostelry?”

“The George”, he said. “Definitely the best in town, and it's on my beat. Plus the landlady Bess is one of the best-informed gossips in the area; if there's any scandal surrounding the five suspects, she'll know it!”

+~+~+

The George was, I thought, fairly decent for a coaching inn. It was certainly clean, and our rooms, which we had briefly seen when we dropped off our bags, were pleasant enough. And, I noted, connected.

Constable Henriksen took out his notebook.

“I interviewed all five people again, as you asked sir, and have gathered the following facts.”

“Not necessarily facts, constable”, Cas said, leaning back in his seat. “Statements and opinions.”

We had found a quiet corner of the George Inn, as it was not due to open for the evening for at least another hour, so we would not be disturbed.

“Very true, sir”, the constable said. “One thing that is definitely a fact is that this is the first of two events to mark the Magna Carta celebrations. As well as the tournament, there is to be a procession through town in full medieval costume. The aldermen did consider calling it off, but Mr. Mark, the new Lord Abinger as is, asked that it go ahead, as it was what his father would have wanted.”

“Noble of him”, I said. The constable flicked a page on his notepad.

“The George was one of several inns that helped prepare food for the banquet”, he said. “Each inn had a section of the menu to supply. The food was all either cold or pre-cooked, and taken to the Barley Mow Hotel which was next to where the banquet took place. Food that needed reheating was warmed in their kitchens, and carried to the food tent by their staff. There were four of their staff on duty in the food tent, to make sure that it was set out ready for the squires to come and collect it. Each table had a number to correspond to one of the seventents, so it seems unlikely that the poisoned food - if it was poisoned at that point - could have been meant for anyone else.”

“The meal began just before six o'clock in the evening. I have a copy of the menu, if you need it, sir. Twenty-one knights sat down to the dinner, in seven groups of three, each at their own separate tables. The tables were numbered, so all the squires had to do was to bring in the food from their table in the food hall in the order it was presented. The dead man's table was number four.”

“Lord Abinger did not show any signs of illness during the meal at all?” I asked.

“No-one reported seeing any. The meal progressed as expected, and afterwards they all went out to see a torch-lit mini-tournament. After about ten minutes Lord Abinger collapsed in agony.”

“Who reached him first?” Cas asked.

“Young Rawlinson, closely followed by his son Michael. They took his garb off to try to help him breathe – that medieval stuff is heavy – but he was pronounced dead on the way to the hospital.”

“And the food?”

“Unfortunately all the used dishes from all the tables had been lumped together. The boys did try to identify what they thought were their plates, and these were tested first, but nothing was found. We're still doing the others. It will take several days.”

Cas thought for some time.

“You say there is to be a procession?" he said. 

“Yes, sir. Next Monday.”

“Did you keep Lord Abinger's things, or have you handed them back to his son?” Cas asked.

“Lord Mark said to keep them as long as we needed”, the constable said, “and that he would sell them or give them away once we were done with them.”

Cas thought again.

“Doctor”, he said turning suddenly to me, “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Of course”, I said. “Anything.”

I would like to say I was never that stupid again in my entire life, but sadly, I cannot.

+~+~+

The next day was Saturday. Our rooms at the George were comfortably warm, but the winter weather was poor, a slow lazy drizzle that seemed determined to last all day. It had certainly drenched poor Constable Henriksen, when he arrived mid-morning at the inn.

“I found the information you wanted, sir”, he said. “The telegram from Sussex just came.”

“Sussex?” I asked, puzzled. The constable nodded.

“Christ's Hospital say that they were doing Ancient Greece in history with Lord Michael's year”, he said. “And the teacher at the local grammar school looked at me as if I had lost the plot, but he eventually told me that Tague and Rawlinson were doing 1066 and the Battle of Hastings.”

I did not see the point of these revelations, but I knew that self-satisfied look in my friend's blue eyes. That had been exactly the information he had wanted.

We were distracted by the arrival of the landlady, who looked almost hungrily at the constable. She was a surprisingly young woman, probably no more than thirty. Henriksen ran a finger round his collar as she eyed him up, and blushed.

“These gentlemen are helping me with the Abinger case”, he said, a little quicker than his usual voice. “I do not suppose there is any gossip about the 'Famous Five', as they are being called in the village now?”

She gave him one last look before turning her attentions to Cas, and eyeing him almost as much. I felt offended at being passed over, but she spoke before I could voice my objections.

“The word is that His Lordship was in Queer Street, and wanted to sell a farm he owned with Mr. Fisher”, she said. “But he refused. No argument, but Phyllis at the Dog and Duck says that Mr. Fisher was in a bad mood after the meeting.”

She gave both men a final hungry look and left. I wondered what it was about my friend that just screamed 'available', and silently wished that it would stop. I was not the jealous sort, but.....

Who was I kidding? Yes I damn well was!

+~+~+

It was on Sunday that I found out exactly what Cas wanted me to do.

“Hell, no!”

III

I folded my arms and stood my ground. I knew we were after a murderer, but damn it, there were limits to what a man should have to put up with.

Cas looked beseechingly at me, and I winced. He rarely did it, but he had Sammy's hurt puppy look down to a tee. I knew I was going to fold even whilst I was pouting.

“Why me?” I asked. 

“Because you and the late Lord Abinger are of similar physical appearance”, Cas said, “and I think this may help jog some memories. Amongst other things.”

Constable Henriksen had been round to the five other people at the dead man's table and explained Cas' request to them. The detective wanted to reconstruct the events leading up to the death, presumably, as he had said, to jog memories. Though I felt instinctively that there was more to it than that.

“I will look a complete fool!” I protested. 

“It is not as is someone is going to take photographs”, he said pleadingly. “Please? For me?”

I slumped in defeat. “Fine!” I groused. “But you owe me!”

“Good”, he said. “And one little thing more.....”

Suddenly those three years without him did not see that bad after all....

+~+~+

“What I wish to do”, Cas explained the following day, “is to run through exactly what happened one section at a time, and see if anything was missed in your statements.”

“You suspect us of lying?” Mr. Rawlinson demanded harshly.

“Not knowingly, but there may have been things that whilst you dismissed them as unimportant, may have a bearing on the case”, Cas said smoothly. “We will take it from the end of the meal. How did you know the meal was over?”

“There's a bell on the Barley Mow's lawn, and they rang it to mark the start of the activities outside”, Albert Tague said. “Jake and I were just taking out the last dessert dishes. We were running slightly behind schedule.”

“You see, that is new information”, Cas said, sounding pleased. “My friend Doctor Winchester has agreed to stand in for the late Lord Abinger, so if the three gentlemen would all stand up?”

I felt decidedly uncomfortable in a dead man's outfit. I, Rawlinson and Fisher all rose.

“You left together?” Cas asked.

“Yes”, Rawlinson said.

“No we didn't”, Fisher countered. “I remember now. I left first, and I had to wait at our seats for you two.”

Cas looked pointedly at Henriksen.

“That's right”, Rawlinson agreed. “Abinger had a problem with his gloves; couldn't find the damn things anywhere. The boys were all set to look for them, but we didn't want to miss the fun, so I loaned him mine. I found them too heavy, and put on my regular ones that I brought with me.”

“These were the ones you loaned him?” Cas asked, producing a pair of gloves from a brown bag.

Rawlinson looked closer, and nodded.

“That's my shield on them”, he said. “Yes.”

“Put them on, doctor”, Cas said. I did, thinking of the instruction he had given me earlier, and wondering what the hell was going on. No change there, then.

“I'm sorry, gentlemen”, Cas said, “but much as I would like to purchase you all drinks now, we must wait at least ten minutes to correctly simulate the events of that fateful day. However, once that time is up, I hope you will all allow me to treat you to whichever beverage the Barley Mow can provide.”

“That's good of you, sir”, Fisher said. 

“You met up again at the benches where you were viewing the events going on in the field”, Cas said. “It was torch-lit, so I presume you could not see much?”

“Yes we could”, said Fisher. “It was almost a full moon, and not a cloud in the sky. We were lucky; it bucketed down barely half an hour after everything finished!”

“Indeed”, Cas smiled. “Did you discuss anything in particular?”

“Just local things”, Rawlinson said. “He was thinking of selling of an unprofitable farm near Shalford, but that's too far for me.”

“Boys, did you sit with them?” Cas asked, turning to the teenagers.

They all looked startled at being included in the conversation. 

“Jake and I walked over to the river”, Albert Tague said. “One of us had to remain on duty, but we were to swap over after half an hour.”

“So you were away at the time of Lord Abinger's collapse”, Cas said.

Jacob Rawlinson looked pale at the memory, but shook his head.

“We wanted to head over to one of the stalls, and passed by the benches on the way there”, he said. “Father and Mr. Fisher were stood talking about something, and Mike's dad was just sat there. He looked a bit pale, to be honest. We'd just reached him when he toppled off his bench and was writhing on the ground.”

“You and his son removed his uniform?” Cas asked.

“We thought he needed air”, Jacob Rawlinson said. “But it didn't do him any good.”

Cas looked thoughtful, and scratched at his left ear. That was my signal. I gasped, and collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

IV

“Quick!” Jacob Rawlinson yelled. “Get his things off!”

“No!” I heard Cas say. “If it's what killed Lord Abinger, then cooling the body is the worst thing you could do. No-one must remove a single item. Henriksen, fetch a doctor.”

The boy blatantly ignored him, because he bent down and tried to prise the gloves off my hands. As I was curled up in the foetal position this was difficult enough, but eventually he had a grip on one of them. That was the moment I suddenly uncurled and grabbed his hands with my own. He stared at me in shock.

“Bravo, doctor!” Cas applauded. “You have caught your first murderer!”

There was a stunned silence in the room. 

“I think, sir, you had better explain yourself”, Rawlinson said coldly.

“I shall”, Cas said. “Starting with the fact that you, sir, were the intended victim in this matter.”

Rawlinson turned almost as pale as his son, who had been dragged to his feet and was now being held in the implacable grip of Constable Henriksen.

“What do you mean?” the man asked.

“From the start of this case”, Cas said, “I was struck by the fact that the only one of the squires who had any real motive to harm or even kill their father was young Mr. Jacob Rawlinson. His behaviour ran the risk of disinheritance, particularly as there were younger brothers at hand. Yet it was Lord Abinger who lay dead, whilst his squire, his second son, did not benefit in any significant way by his demise. Albert Tague was expected to inherit on his uncle's death, but first, that was not certain, and second, he would have inherited money anyway form his father. The good doctor here helped me when he suggested that the wrong person may have died.”

I blushed at the praise.

“It all revolved about how the crime was committed, which seemed to be in the food that was eaten”, Cas went on. “However, once I saw the dead lord's costume, I had an idea as to another way that it could have been done. You will remember, Constable, how I asked what the three boys were studying in history class?”

“What was that about?” I asked, dusting myself down.

“I was delighted to find that Rawlinson had been recently studying the Norman Invasion”, Cas said. “There is a part of that story which gave him the idea for his crime. You may remember that Duke William of Normandy had a reputation for ruthlessly disposing of his enemies? He had been afraid that, in his absence, Duke Conan of Brittany might try to steal some of his western lands. The story goes that he averted this threat by anonymously sending his rival a pair of poisoned gloves which, foolishly, the man donned. Thus a rival was eliminated, and the invasion could go ahead.”

He looked sternly at the trembling boy in the policeman's grasp. 

“I reasoned that you would have heavily dosed the gloves with poison”, he said. “The police had them, but did not think to test them, which was the only real danger. Until you saw someone else donning them, and succumbing to the fatal poison. You may care to know, young sir, that before they were thoroughly cleaned and passed onto my friend, they were tested and found to contain enough poison to kill several people. Your own reactions gave you away as well.”

The youth groaned, and Constable Henriksen dragged him away. Rawlinson came up to Cas.

“Would he.....?”

“I have little doubt”, the detective said, “that not that far into the future and once the hue and cry had died down, you yourself would have met a tragic 'accident'.”

The man bowed his head.

“Thank you, sir”, he muttered, before leaving.

“He could have shown a little more gratitude”, I said acidly.

“The man has just seen his son and heir shown to be a murderer”, Cas said pointedly. “Now, doctor, I think you had better be getting ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked, puzzled.

“For the procession, of course!”

“Hell, no!”

+~+~+

I tried to object that surely only a member of the Abinger family should represent the dead lord, but Lord Mark had apparently heard of my role in exposing his father's killer, and had insisted that I take his place. The event itself was tolerable, although the photographs afterwards – individual and then a grand collective one for the town hall – seemed to take forever.

+~+~+

It was not until two days after we were back in London that I found out why that photographer had wanted a second picture of me in that dreadful medieval costume, when I saw a new picture on Cas' desk. I looked closer, and stared in horror.

“Cas!” I roared.

V

A tousle-haired figure stuck his head out of his room. He had clearly just come out of his bathroom, and was wearing just his dressing-gown. He looked at me innocently.

“Is something wrong, doctor?” he asked politely. 

I scowled at him.

“You did that deliberately!” I snapped. “I wondered why the man needed a second photograph of me. You asked him for it, didn't you?”

He seemed to consider that for a while, the smiled cheekily at me.

“I did”, he admitted. “Why? I think you look quite handsome in it.”

I growled, and crossed the room in a few strides, pushing him back into his bedroom. He looked at me with a faux innocence that I was some way past believing. 

“Show me as the lord of the manor, would you?” I grumbled, pushing him back onto the bed. He went easily, his dressing-gown falling open and totally derailing my train of thought for a moment before I could recover. “Well, since I am the lord of the manor, maybe it's time I insisted on my droit de seigneur!

Fortunately I had been in my own dressing-gown at the time, so I was not delayed by my usual slow removal of my own clothes. He smirked at me from the bed.

“Actually, Dean, droit de seigneur is a myth perpetrated by the history books”, he said, as I positioned myself between his legs. “The correct phraseology is really jus primae noctis, meaning right of the first night, the right of the local lord to take the virginity of any daughters or omegas belonging to his serfs....”

I curtailed the history lesson somewhat by quickly preparing his entrance, causing him to let out a guttural groan. Neither of us were silent when coupling, and I had been at least partly won over to the rooms in Baker Street by the fact that they were somewhat apart from those of the other tenants. Cas in particular could be loud when... well, when.

“Some of the ancient tribes of Africa practised something similar”, he managed, which was impressive as I was now scissoring him open rather more quickly than usual. “It was supporters of the French Revolution who claimed this to have been an aristocratic right, so as to make their enemies seem even more unpopulaaaaar......”

The last syllable of that word was drawn out almost painfully, as I breached him with one finger still inside. He rolled his head back and moaned ecstatically, and a small part of me wished that he might have been an omega and that our union could one day have produced children. But then I would have twenty years of rivalry for his affections, and besides, he was far tighter than any girl or omega I had had before. No, this was perfect!

“I already had your first night”, I growled, thinking back to our first memorable meeting in Stamford's rooms at Oxford some twelve years – twelve years! - back. “I want every night with you, Cas. I claim you as my right, and I will never let you go!”

With that I changed my angle and struck his prostate, causing his moans to become almost painful. Then he clenched his walls around me, and we were both racing to orgasms which came far too soon. Normally I would have pulled out and rested afterwards, but I felt fiercely possessive of the little man for some reason, and instead merely flipped us over so he was almost on top of me, with me still inside him. I doubted that we would stay long like this, but he surprised me by falling asleep almost at once. I held him close to me, and silently blessed myself for having this wonderful man in my life

+~+~+

Our next case would involve a step up the social ladder from nobility to royalty.......


	8. Case 26: Family Remains (1887)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned as 'the case involving the Amateur Mendicant Society'.

I

My friend Cas' many cases included everything from locating lost items to bloody murder. In this particular instance, it involved both, and introduced me to a stratum of London society of which I was totally unaware.

Eighteen hundred and eighty-seven was a busy year for cases, let alone an important milestone in our relationship. It was only a few days after my friend had placed that terrible photograph of myself in medieval garb on his desktop – I had not yet forgiven him, but he was slowly bringing me round - that we had a visitor, who brought our next case with him. He was a beta in his sixties, rotund and a little out of breath just from climbing our stairs, but he had a pleasant enough face. 

“I am in urgent need of your services, Mr. Novak”, he said, patting his forehead with a handkerchief. “It is quite literally a matter of life and death. Time is of the essence. We cannot.....”

Fortunately Cas chose that moment to present him with a large whisky, which temporarily stilled the flow of words.

“Winchester and I think it is always best if our cases start at the beginning”, he said soothingly. “Calm yourself, sir, and then tell us why a lawyer has decided to travel all the way from the English midlands, and why you came straight here from the station in such a hurry.”

The man stared at him in astonishment.

“How did you know that?” he gasped at last. “Am I being followed?”

Cas chuckled. I suppressed a smile; his perspicacity often shocked our clients.

“Your clothes indicate that you have undergone a journey of some length, therefore a railway carriage is implicated”, he said. “First-class, as other classes' seats tend to leave small pieces of fluff on their users' clothes. There is a faint yellow smear on one of your boots, which is typical of platform markings on London and North Western Railway stations mostly beyond Birmingham, but the fine soot on the other boot is indicative of a journey on the Great Western Railway, as only they use the Welsh coal that could have generated it. These two companies largely intersect in the English midlands; a change of trains is hence indicated, and the fact you did not stop to get your boots cleaned shows that you are in a hurry.”

“But how did you know I am a lawyer?” the man asked, looking more than a little alarmed.

“There is excessive wear on the entry to your right coat pocket”, he explained. “It is my experience that lawyers tend to place documents there on a short-term basis.”

“I see”, he said, calming down a little. “You are quite correct, and I see that your medical author friend was right about your skills. I am hoping you can employ them for my use, and possibly save a young man's life.”

“Kindly tell us everything you can”, Cas smiled, “and we shall see what we can do.”

+~+~+

“My name is Mr. Nigel Farmington”, our visitor began, “and I live in the Worcestershire town of Stourport-on-Severn. I am fortunate enough to be a junior partner at Cartwright and Farmington's, a highly reputable legal business in Dudley. I am technically retired, but my years of service have left me with some of our most important clients, whom I continue to tend to as some of them do not like change. And none are more important than the de Braoses of Bewdley, a few miles north of my home town.”

“Lord Harold de Braose was, until yesterday, my client. He was seventy-four, an alpha and, until recently, in good health. He had had three sons, but all had unfortunately predeceased him. The second son however, Lord Stephen, had married and had two sons of his own, a beta, Sulien, and an alpha, Arnulf.” He caught my expression and smiled. “Sulien was the name of the first de Braose to own land in Bewdley, doctor, around the time of Henry the First, and Arnulf was his Saxon steward.”

I nodded.

“Just under a year ago”, the lawyer went on, “there was a major falling-out between Lord Harold and his elder grandson and effective heir, Sulien. I do not of course know what it was about, but Sulien, a good enough man yet hot-tempered when provoked, left the house as a result, vowing never to return. He was barely twenty-one at the time, and Arnulf was almost exactly a year younger. I have reason to believe Sulien came to London, where he later became a mendicant.”

I bit back a smile at the lawyerly term for beggar.

“In all fairness, I have to state that my personal preference is against the younger grandson, Arnulf”, the lawyer said. “I consider that he played the dutiful relation to his grandfather, but although I abhor gossip, I often heard talk that he behaved very differently when he thought he was not being watched. There was also a regrettable incident quite some years back, when he attacked a visitor to the house one time, for reasons I could not discover. The whole matter was hushed up, and he was sent off to school.”

“I was also told by the servants, who are terrible gossips I might add, that young Arnulf had been applying subtle pressure on his grandfather to fully disinherit his elder brother. The fact that he is an alpha and Sulien only a beta has also been brought into play, but although some families work like that, the Braoses have always been more modern in their approach to such things. Besides, there were indications that Lord Harold remained hopeful of a reconciliation up to the end.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

The lawyer seemed to hesitate. 

“You must understand that, as a lawyer, I abhor speculation and uncertainty”, he said slowly. “Lord Harold died yesterday from a fall down the stairs. Mrs. Fortnum, the housekeeper, admitted to me in private when I called at the house for a scheduled appointment that same afternoon that she suspected his younger grandson may have had a hand in that fall. Of course there is no proof of that assertion.”

“You wish me to investigate that murder?” Cas asked.

The elderly lawyer shook his head.

“It is young Sulien for whom I fear”, he said. “Assuming he is still alive, he is the only thing that stands between his brother and the de Braose estate. His brother is an unstable young man, and I would not put it past him to hunt Sulien down and remove the last obstacle between himself and the estate. The death of a mendicant on the streets of London would hardly draw attention, I fear.”

“So we have the added pressure of time”, Cas said. “We must go straight to the top. I presume you return to Worcestershire today?”

“Yes, sir”, the lawyer said, handing over a card, “but a telegram will reach me either at work or at home. I wish you Godspeed in your endeavours.”

“Thank you”, Cas smiled.

+~+~+

I fully expected us to be heading to see Balthazar Novak, even if I still disliked the man intensely. I was therefore both relieved and puzzled when our cab kept to the north side of the city, and eventually pulled up outside a small, dirty flower shop on the edge of the East End.

“This is 'the top'?” I asked dubiously.

Cas smiled at my befuddlement, and led me inside. It was nothing spectacular (and that was putting it kindly!). Two elderly ladies were there, both dressed in plain work-clothes. To my surprise, Cas approached the elder of the two and bowed deeply.

“Your majesty”, he said, to my surprise if not shock.

She looked at him shrewdly.

“You had both better come through the back”, she said, and led off towards a door in the corner.

II

The back room was very different from what I had expected. This was a Victorian lady's reception room, and the flower-seller looked almost absurdly out of place as she poured out tea. She smiled at me as she handed me my cup.

“You always were one for keeping secrets, Mr. Novak”, she said reprovingly, but there was a warmth to her tone that belied her words. “Even from those you drag through your adventures, however willingly.”

He turned to me.

“Dean”, he said, “meet Mrs. Margaret Bell, better known to everyone in this part of our fair city as Queen Molly.”

I looked at her in astonishment before I got it.

“Of course!” I said. “Queen of the Beggars!”

“Mendicants, doctor”, she said, shaking the sugar-tongs at me in disapproval. I blushed and lowered my eyes, feeling scolded.

“If there is anyone who can help us with our quest, it is this lady”, Cas said.

She looked at him.

“Both you are your medical friend are known to be more than generous to my subjects”, she said. “You have a request to ask of me?”

Cas nodded.

“Around this time last year, a young beta called Sulien de Braose came to London”, he said. “The family lawyer fears that his life may now be in danger, and believes that he currently practices a life of mendicancy. If so, it was my hope that you might be able to find him.”

“A year ago”, she said heavily. “I seem to recall reading in the good doctor's stories about how a certain famous detective sometimes makes pointed remarks that a trail has gone cold long before he is called in? And how that makes things infinitely more difficult for him?”

I tried not to snigger at the almost verbatim quotes from my own works, but I failed dismally. Cas actually blushed, bless him.

“All that is known is that he arrived at either Paddington or Euston”, he said, “and that it may have taken some time for his money to run out. His father was a rich man, and has now passed on. There is speculation that the new mendicant's younger brother may have been implicated in speeding that passing, and that he may be seeking to also eliminate his elder brother so that he may inherit all. I have been asked to investigate the business as a matter of urgency.”

She nodded.

“I can make some inquiries”, she said, “but you would also do well to talk to Lord Joseph. He is of course as much a real lord as I am a real queen, but he is head of the Amateur Mendicant Society.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Mendicancy is not left to chance, doctor”, she explained. “It is all highly organized, so that the maximum amount can be raised from the philanthropic public, your good self included. If this young man did fall to the streets, then he would have been swiftly adopted by Lord Joseph's organization where he would have been trained to do things properly for a couple of years, before joining mine. By having such a system, we are able to support those like this boy who are just starting out, and possibly even help him back into society.”

“I am sure that if we can find this boy, he would always remember those who stood by him in his hour of need”, Cas said.

The lady took a card and wrote something on it before passing it over to Cas. 

“Go to the address on there, and be sure to hand the card in to the clerk”, she said. “Don't be surprised if they snatch it off you; they are naturally wary of anything that approaches authority. The signature will prove that I trust you.”

“Thank you, ma'am”, Cas said.

He stood up and bowed again, and I did likewise. He placed an envelope on the table that clearly contained several notes, and the 'queen' smiled at him.

+~+~+

“I did not expect to be seeing royalty today!” I remarked, as our cab made its was towards St. Pancras and the address 'the queen' had given us. 

“Molly is head of all the beggars in London”, Cas explained. “Indeed, if only our government were better ordered, matters might not be in such a mess as they currently are!”

“So what part does the Amateur Mendicant Society play in all this?” I asked curiously.

“It is more or less the training agency for mendicants, to allow them to maximize their appeal when plying their trade”, Cas said. “Facial sores, verbal patter, the right clothing – it can all combine to make the difference between a good day and a bad one, between food and no food. Molly takes a cut from everyone who begs in the capital, but she is more iron-clad than a battleship when it comes to redistributing it to those who need it. Two years ago one of her subordinates tried to put away some funds for his own use.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Our cab juddered to a halt, and I saw we had reached our destination. Cas looked at me meaningfully.

“The man was dragged off the bottom of the Thames two days later”, he said flatly.

Oh.

+~+~+

We had arrived at a funeral parlour, Wainwright's and Sons (the glamour of the modern detective's life!). Having entered, Cas handed over the card he had been given to the beta who came to greet us. He looked at us uncertainly, then curtly told us not to move or touch anything before disappearing out the back.

“What does he expect us to do?” I grumbled. “Run off with a coffin?”

Cas smiled, and more quickly than I had expected, the man came back. His attitude was very different now, and we were all but bowed out to a small office. The name 'Joseph Wainwright' was emblazoned on the door. Our guide ushered us in, then all but fled.

Mr. Joseph Wainwright looked every bit the funeral director. He was about fifty years of age, a gaunt alpha dressed all in black and wearing what was far too obviously a hairpiece. I tried not to stare, but it took an effort. That was bad!

He looked at us expectantly. So, I felt, did the hairpiece.

“Anyone who can persuade Molly to part with one of her cards must be someone worth talking to”, he said sharply. “Besides, I've read about you, Mr. Novak. Pray, what brings you down to the world of mendicancy?”

Cas explained our search for Sulien de Braose, and I noted immediately that, upon his mentioning the man's name, our host's face fell.

“There was an attack on that young man only this afternoon”, he said. “Someone walked up to him and tried to stab him. Fortunately he was out training with old Ben, who had his whistle on him. When a copper came running up, the attacker fled.”

“How is he?” I asked.

“He was taken to hospital”, Lord Joseph said. “I told Ben to stay with him, just in case. Attacks on mendicants are rare, but some people see us as an easy target. At least until Molly catches up with them.”

“Would it be acceptable for us to see him?” Cas asked.

“Of course”, Lord Joseph said. “He is at St. German's, a few streets away. I am sure you know it.”

To my surprise, Cas seemed to hesitate. He and our host looked at each other as if communicating in some strange silent tongue. Eventually Lord Joseph shook his head.

“I would like until midnight”, Cas said. “Please. If it does not go as I hope, then of course....”

“I see”, Lord Joseph said, pulling at his beard. “Because Molly speaks for you, the Society shall give you that time, Mr. Novak. But only until midnight, mind!”

Cas stood and bowed.

“Thank you sir”, he said, before ushering me out.

III

“What was all that about?” I asked in bewilderment, once we were outside.

“I will tell you once we are back in Baker Street”, he said.

I was a little annoyed, but said nothing. We returned home, and to our rooms, where I immediately set about starting a fire. It was a cold winter's day, and I was freezing.

“I am expecting a visitor in an hour or two”, he said as I sank onto the couch. “And I need you to do something verging on the unethical, doctor.”

I looked at him uncertainly. 

“You know I am bound by an oath as a doctor”, I reminded him. “'First do no harm', remember?”

“It is not harm as such”, he growled, and oh boy, I knew what Voice. “Just being flexible with the truth.”

He had slid onto the couch beside me, and despite the fact we were both fully clothed, I already felt my heart-rate increasing. Hell, put me in a crinoline and I would be one of those excruciating female characters in those awful melodramas being shown across London. No, I was an alpha and proud of it.

Then Cas slid his hand inside my trousers, and I immediately lost the power of rational thought, especially when he began sliding it excruciatingly slowly up and down my rapidly hardening cock. 

“Mwah?” I managed. Of course the blue-eyed bastard was as cool as a cucumber.

“I need you to tell our visitor something that is technically untrue”, he growled, gradually increasing his pace. “All for the good of the case, of course.”

I let out something that an uncharitable person could, just possibly, have defined as a whine. He moved even closer, and damnation, he was going to put another love-bite on me! One of my clients had seen the last one two weeks prior, and I had had to virtually flee the house to escape her cooing and questioning.

“Yes!” I squeaked. “Fine!”

And the bastard then suddenly stopped, withdrew his hand, sat back and picked up his book, leaving me unfinished.

“You..... Cas!” I almost yelled.

“Did you want something?” he inquired archly, as if he had not just taken me to the brink of orgasm only to abandon me there.

Somehow I managed to pull down my trousers and underwear, freeing my still hard cock to the open air. I gasped in relief, but before I could finish myself off he suddenly threw his book across the room, leaned over and took my cock in his mouth, whilst somehow both massaging my balls and keeping a tight grip on me, preventing me from coming. I moaned in pain, but he continued to lick me off until he was ready, then pulled off and did something just there.....

I erupted. My come flew across the rug and some even went into the fire, were it briefly sizzled before burning. I was panting as if I had just run a marathon, but of course he looked totally unperturbed by just having given me one of the best orgasms of my life.

“They will be here shortly”, he said calmly. “Perhaps you would like to change?”

I gave him a dirty look. He would pay for this later!

+~+~+

(He did).

+~+~+

Cas must have gone downstairs for some reason, for when I emerged from my room having made an effort to clean myself up, he was not there. A couple of minutes later I thought I heard two people coming up the stairs, but when he came into the room, he was alone.

“It all went as you expected?” I ventured.

He nodded. 

“He is due here within the hour”, he said. “I doubt willingly, but he will not chance that I can prove something without confirming or denying it for himself.”

I nodded, and poured him a drink. We both sat down to wait.

+~+~+

“Mr. Arnulf de Braose.”

Mrs. Harvelle announced our guest and withdrew. The man she left behind was anaemic-looking, tall and flaxen-haired, with a rat-like face. Even without knowing what I did about him, I would have disliked him on sight.

“Please take a seat, my lord”, Cas said politely, gesturing to my chair. I silently ground my teeth, but did not object.

“Not my lord, Mr. Novak”, the man said with a false smile. “My wayward elder brother holds that title.”

Cas looked surprised. 

“I am sorry”, he said, looking genuinely bewildered. “I was made to believe the hospital had informed you. They told myself and Doctor Winchester that they had sent an urgent telegram to your City house.”

“A telegram about what?” he asked.

“I am sorry to have to tell you”, I said gravely, “but your brother was attacked whilst begging in the vicinity of Euston Station this afternoon. One of the wounds hit a major artery. He died approximately one hour after reaching the hospital.”

IV

He stared at me suspiciously.

“And how do you know this?” he demanded.

“Your family lawyer asked me to help track your brother down”, Cas said. “Unfortunately by the time we found the hospital that he had been taken to, he was already dead.”

He stood up and, to my surprise, walked over to the hat-stand. He seemed to be lost in thought.

“So Farmington did come and see you”, Our unwelcome visitor said, pursing his lips. “Fool said he might. Pity you weren't a bit quicker.”

Cas returned to his chair and looked hard at our visitor.

“Three things, Mr. de Braose”, he said, and I knew that voice of old. The blue-eyed bastard had something. “First, your brother was able to provide an accurate description of his attacker to the police. Right down to his eye colour, and the emblem on the red tie he was wearing.”

Our visitor shifted uneasily in his seat, and pulled his jacket closer around him as if to hide the red tie around his neck.

“The rambling words of a dying man”, he said dismissively. “You are not implying, I hope, that I am in any way involved in this matter, Mr. Novak? I would remind you that this country does have laws concerning slander.”

“Except those laws only apply if the allegation is untrue”, Cas countered. “Rather more serious, sir, is the second matter. Doctor, please bring me our visitor's coat.”

I was surprised, but fetched the coat from the stand and brought it across. Cas did not immediately take it from me, but took a pair of tweezers from the nearby table and pulled a long red thread off of the collar, before placing it in a bag.

“When he was attacked, your brother was wearing a scarf kindly supplied to him by the Amateur Mendicant Society”, he said silkily. “Red, with purple and blue thread running through it. His attacker could easily have transferred any loose threads to his own clothing.”

“The words of a dying man, and a piece of thread”, our visitor scoffed, though I could see he had gone even paler. “I thought you were supposed to be a great detective, Mr. Novak. Is this the best you can do? Really?”

“There is something else, sir”, Cas said. “We know one more fact about Mr. Sulien's assailant, and it is somewhat interesting.”

“And that is?”

“He had recently washed his face with a bar of lavender soap”, Cas said. “In his effort to get away, Mr. Sulien pushed at his assailant's face. It turned out that your brother was mildly allergic to lavender oil, because there was a rash on his hand when he arrived at the hospital.”

“So?” our guest snapped. “I washed my face when I got back to my hotel. That doesn't mean anything.”

“Why did you come to London?” Cas asked.

“To see some of Sulien's old school friends, and see if they had heard from him. Look, Mr, Novak, I've had about enough of these allegations. Unless you've got some actual evidence, I'm going back to Worcestershire.”

“Actually there is just one more thing”, Cas said, standing up and walking over to the door to his room. “But I am probably not the best person to ask it.”

He opened the door, and my hand tightened on my stick. Arnulf de Braose shook his head, then stood up and turned to face Cas. There was a bedraggled figure standing outside the door.

Our visitor fainted.

+~+~+

“I still think it was a little bit mean”, I said, as we sat round a roaring fire. The rain was hurtling down outside, but inside it was pleasantly warm. Sergeant Henriksen had gone off with a still unconscious Arnulf de Braose, who had had to be carried to the police carriage by his two constables. 

Our guest smiled at both of us. Sulien de Braose, now in a proper suit and looking every inch the English lord. He still looked far too thin from all his months on the cold London streets, but he was healthy enough, and would soon be back to full fitness.

“It was almost worth being stabbed to see his face!” he smiled. “He looked like the End Times were about come upon him!”

Cas looked at him.

“You know they would have done anyway?” he asked.

Sulien nodded.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When we spoke with Lord Joseph earlier”, Cas said, “what I asked him for was time. Like Queen Molly, the Amateur Mendicant Society does not take kindly to people killing their members. Had Mr. Arnulf not been taken to the safety of the police station, then they would have caught up with him a few moments after midnight. Of the two beggars who were watching the house from over by the watchmaker's, one left immediately when Henriksen took his prisoner in. I am certain that the good Lord Joseph knows already that justice is being done, and has reported such to his queen. And it will doubtless be communicated to Mr. Arnulf that any attempt to evade the full force of the law will lead to his meeting a very quick end!”

“An evil man”, I said.

“He was all but certain he had gotten away with his crime”, Cas said. “My only regret is that I cannot prove that he murdered your grandfather, Lord Sulien, though I dare say the Worcestershire constabulary will be taking a renewed interest in the matter.”

“You will be returning home?” I asked our guest.

He smiled.

“Only for a while”, he said. “The estate is large and unprofitable, and the town council wants to buy some of the land to build houses on. No, I shall sell up, buy a place in London, invest the money and then do what I can for my fellow mendicants. I know some of them can't or would choose not to accept help, but some are like me, needing that push to get back into the world that passes them by every day. And Uncle Joe can make sure that the money goes to the right people.”

“A good ending all round”, I smiled. 

+~+~+

Our next case would be a matter of international importance....


	9. Case 27: Frontierland (1887)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter'.

I

I would not have yielded my friendship with Cas for the whole world. Despite his many annoying habits – the fake pipe, the pistol-shooting indoors, the violin-playing, the complete inability to function as a human being before his first coffee of the morning, the permanently scruffy hair, the..... 

He was my true friend. After eight years of living together (not including the Hiatus), it was somehow wonderfully reassuring to see that blue-eyed scruff stagger to the breakfast table every morning as if his life depended on reaching the coffee. I was not the best morning person around, but Cas was truly horrendous! If I ever wanted to end it all, I had only to stand between Cas and caffeine of a morning!

One of the good things about Baker Street was that, after one of the maids had tidied his room so much that he couldn't find anything, Cas had explained to Mrs. Harvelle that he was very possessive about his bedroom, and that whilst the housemaids could clean the rest of our rooms, they were Not To Go In There. This meant, of course, that there was no-one to notice that his bed was rarely slept in, although Mrs. Harvelle often gave me a knowing look that I found quite uncomfortable. Then again, the lady had a rifle, and knew how to use it. If she was displeased with me, I sensed that I would very quickly know it!

The locked bedroom meant, naturally, that Cas now spent the night with me, something I had not known how much I valued until I had it every night. Although I always thought of my friend as by far the more emotionally secure of us, there were times however when he would forsake his caffeine fix to cling onto me, refusing to let me leave the bed. He was usually somewhere between fast asleep and awake at these times, and he would almost snarl if I tried to escape his clutches. Not that I usually tried very hard, and if I had to work in the surgery he would grumpily let me go. If I rewarded him by bringing him coffee in bed every time, that was entirely of my own free will, and not for my own self-preservation.

It was not!

I was truly happy. So when I prized myself away from the human octopus one morning and came out of my room to find another Novak sat in Cas' fireside chair, I scowled. Especially as the man in question was Mr. Balthazar Novak. It was clearly going to be One Of Those Days. The fact that I looked like someone who had been woken by a surprisingly enthusiastic blow-job was almost certainly the cause for the frown on his face, and I may or may not have felt smug about that fact. I walked past him and started to pour a coffee.

“Chin up, doctor!” he said reprovingly. “I'm here on business. We need Cassie to Save The Nation!”

“Balthazar!”

I tried (but failed miserably) not to smile when he jumped into the air, realizing too late that the great detective had emerged silently behind him and was standing just inches away. Even when he looked like death (barely) warmed up, he could still move with all the stealth of a sniper. And he looked even more.....

I hastily pushed those thoughts down. I was only wearing a dressing-gown! 

“If you've touched my coffee, the only thing that'll need investigating is your untimely demise!” Cas almost snarled, pushing his brother out of the way to reach the coffee I had ready for him. I hurriedly placed the sugar-bowl next to his cup, and he smiled his thanks before dumping four cubes into his cup. His brother opened his mouth to comment on it, but Cas shot him a murderous look, and his jaw snapped shut.

“I swear you're as bad as Gabriel”, Balthazar said with a sigh. 

“Chair!” Cas growled. I was pleased to see that his brother moved swiftly from his fireside seat. Cas sipped his coffee and sighed happily.

“Now you're had your caffeine fix and deigned to rejoin humanity”, Balthazar said archly, “how about helping us with a major case?”

He glanced pointedly at me as he spoke, and I bridled.

“You know the deal, Balthazar”, Cas said coldly. “No Dean, no help. If this case is at all sensitive, he'll keep the records but won't publish anything.”

“Sometimes it's as if you two are married”, the taller Novak groused.

“We are not”, Cas said archly. “Though if you are asking, last night we....”

“Cassie!”

Cas did something that sounded suspiciously like a snigger, and resumed his coffee. Part of his dependence apparently involved being able to drink scalding-hot beverages without burning his mouth; my own drink sat virtually untouched and still steaming in front of me. Balthazar sighed in a put-upon manner.

“All right”, he said. 

“You may have my chair”, I said, trying to extend a peace offering. “I find it easier to take notes at the table.”

Our unwelcome visitor poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down.

“As I'm sure you remember”, he said, “six years ago there was a very unpleasant war between the Russians and our on-off friends the Ottomans, which, unsurprisingly, the Russians won hands down. The ensuing peace treaty was so one-sided, however, that we were able to use diplomatic leverage to get it redrafted. One of the consequences of the final treaty was that the region of Thessaly was ceded by the Ottomans to the newly-independent Greek state.”

I remembered that. It was the year of the Darrowby Street Affair, concerning the club-footed Ricoletti and a nasty diplomatic incident. All sorted by the still semi-coherent genius now on his second cup, of course.

“British relations in that part of the world are tricky”, our unwelcome visitor continued. “The government backs the Ottomans, if only as a bulwark against the Russian Bear, but public opinion is on the side of the Greeks, David against Goliath. It was British strength which won the Greeks their freedom sixty years back, against the wishes of the government of the day back then. However, although the treaty came into effect some six years ago, there have been problems. The main one comes from lack of definition; the borders of Thessaly fluctuated over the centuries, and naturally each side picks the ones that suit them. We had thought to have the matter resolved last year, but now it is threatening to blow up again.”

“Why?” Cas asked. I had had the foresight to have a third cup of coffee ready for him as he had by now finished the second, and he smiled at me as he took it. My heart gave a most unmanly flutter, and I could almost hear his brother's frown.

“It's the Greeks who are being difficult”, Balthazar said. “The lands they were given provide them with about a quarter of the coast around the Bay of Thessalonica, at the top of which sits the city of that name. Naturally the Greeks want it, but rather than try to persuade public opinion onto their side over such a great prize, they are doing it indirectly. There is an island, barely one-quarter of a mile across, called Poseidon's Rock. It sits in the centre of the bay's mouth, but because it is fractionally closer to Greek rather then Ottoman territory, the Greeks say they it should have been handed over to them. The Turks placed a flagpole on it the other day and raised their own flag, which led the Greeks to issue a formal protest.”

“Surely a tiny rock will not make a difference?” I objected.

“Balthazar's point is one of public perception”, Cas explained. “For both sides, especially after such a major concession as a whole province, even a tiny rock would be seen as a prelude to a further transfer of land. Especially as Thessalonica sits hard by the province of Macedonia, home to Alexander the Great. That resonates with many Greeks.”

Our visitor nodded.

“If a major war does start in Europe, as the British government fears, it will almost certainly be triggered by some quarrel that starts in the Balkans”, he said. “We have told the papers that both sides are meeting soon, and have implied that they may agree to go somewhere like Cyprus or Italy. In truth, representatives of both sides are coming to London.”

“Why?” I asked.

“At the last meeting, we nearly had a nice new war courtesy of one of the Ottoman translators misunderstanding a single word, and changing the meaning of a whole sentence”, he said. “The Greeks, predictably enough, assumed that it was deliberate. However, this time we managed to find someone both sides can agree on to act as an interpreter. James Collins is only twenty-three and an omega to boot, but he has already produced the definitive work on the history of the region, and it was strictly impartial. He personally oversaw the translations into both Greek and Arabic, and refused to sign either off until he was satisfied. I think liking his book was about the only time the Greeks and Turks have ever agreed on anything in the past century!”

“I read that book”, I said. “I really admired the single-mindedness of the author. It was clear throughout that he did not even think of taking sides, or being at all judgmental.”

Balthazar nodded.

“I wish the same could be said for his family”, he said with a heavy sigh. “His mother Janet is from Tarabulus, and fiercely pro-Turk, whilst his omega brother Jason is English through and through but equally fiercely pro-Greek. Though from what I have read about our man, I doubt he even notices. They say that he is totally wrapped up in his work, and would forget to eat or go home unless someone chanced to remind him so to do.”

“So what do you need Cas for in all this?” I asked. 

Balthazar hesitated.

II

"Two nights ago, James Collins visited a Turkish baths in Oxford”, he said. “He was attacked on leaving the premises. His face was cut up, but fortunately a policeman heard what was afoot, and the assailants fled. I only learned of it today, and came straight here from Oxford once I had checked up on him. He is in a bad way, but he insists he can still attend the meeting next week, even if he has to attend looking like one of those Egyptian mummies.”

“Admirable”, I muttered.

“You are afraid there will be a further attempt on him?” Cas asked. Balthazar shook his head.

“Apparently his younger brother is being, and I quote, 'a complete mother-hen'”, he grinned. “Mr. James told me the only reason he wasn't there was because he'd sent him out to get a bar of chocolate from a shop several streets away! But I would like you to see him beforehand, and then again at the meeting.”

Cas did that bird-like head-tilt thing, analyzing his brother as if he were some strange species.

“Why?” he asked. His brother reddened.

“I just have a feeling”, Balthazar said. “Something's not right.”

“In your line of business, hunches can be the difference between war and peace”, Cas said. “When do you need us?”

“There's an informal dinner at my house for Collins and both sides, the day before the actual meeting. Thursday at six.”

“We shall attend”, Cas said. I felt a slight feeling of satisfaction when his brother visibly flinched at the use of the plural.

All right, perhaps it was not that slight.

+~+~+

I was surprised when, the day before we were due to attend the pre-meeting dinner, I arrived home to find Cas not there. Though his cases often took him away from Baker Street during the day, it was a rare thing that I beat him home. He came in late, and was greatly appreciative of Mrs. Harvelle having kept a dinner for him.

“That woman is a saint!” he muttered, all but inhaling the sausages and bacon as was his wont. I smiled at his eagerness, and waited to see if there would be any elucidation as to his whereabouts that day. Once he had finished eating, he sighed happily.

“A full stomach, a warm fire, a whisky and a good friend”, he said, pouring himself said drink before easing slowly into his chair. “Life is good.”

“You went out today?” I said questioningly.

“I went to Oxford”, he said.

“To see Mr. Collins?” I asked.

“In a way.”

I stared at him curiously.

“Either you saw him or did not see him”, I said, a little testily. I myself had had a hard day, full of patients who had been more trying than usual, and was not up for guessing games.

“I did not see Mr. James Collins”, he clarified. “I did however have a highly productive meeting with a Mr. Jebediah Spratt.”

“Who?”

“Until recently, he was Mr. Jason Collins' valet”, Cas explained. “He retired last year to a small cottage in the village of Yarnton, north of the city.”

“Why did you need to see him?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because he had something that forms part of this case”, Cas said mysteriously. “Very fortunately for him, otherwise we would be looking at a case of murder.”

“Murder!” I exclaimed in horror.

“Oh, and I spoke to Balthazar. We are to arrive for dinner at half-past five, not six o'clock.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To prevent a war”, he said, picking up his book, which I realized was that written by James Collins himself. I sighed, and returned to my writings.

III

Despite my hard day, I found it oddly difficult to get to sleep that night. Cas had been called out late by a telegram from his father, and I missed having my own personal human heater beside me. Finally however I managed to doze off, though I slept fitfully.

I was dreaming. It was a warm, sunny day, and I was standing at the gate to a house set some distance away. I had never seen it before, but then Cas came out of the door. Even at this distance I could recognize the impossibly untidy hair. I smiled.....

The house blew up, scattering debris so far that it rained down close to me, what must have been at least a hundred yards away. I let out a cry of agony.....

Then I awoke, and realized where I was. My own bed, in the safety of Baker Street. And holding me close, the man I loved.

“You were having a nightmare, Dean”, he whispered, running his fingers through my short hair whilst holding me close. “Just a bad dream.”

The man I loved.

“You were gone!” I blurted out. “Dead!”

“It was just a bad dream”, he repeated. “I'm still here.”

He eased me up and kissed my forehead, then my nose and finally he gently touched my lips. I was still shaking, but his presence was slowly calming me down.

“I need you inside of me”, I whispered. “Please?”

Even in the darkness of the room, I knew he was smiling at me. 

“Of course, Dean”, he whispered.

He gently eased himself down to between my legs, and I felt a finger probing carefully at my entrance. It was at times like this that I wished I could take him raw, but on the few occasions that we had tried that, the pain had outweighed the pleasure every time. Though clearly he sensed my need, for he prepared me much more quickly than usual, easing me open and ready for him. Even so, it seemed like an eternity before I felt his cock head touching my entrance, and I almost tried to push down onto him.

He eased himself in, again more quickly than usual, and I felt a slight but welcome burn as he filled me up. Once he was inside, I pulled at him, and he complied by helping me to sit up so I was effectively riding him. I gripped him so hard that I almost certainly left hand-prints on his sides, but he clearly sensed my need for closeness as he said nothing. Instead he somehow managed to twist that supremely flexible body of his so that he found my prostate within seconds. A small part of me regretted not being to make it last, but I needed release and I needed it fast. In under a minute I was coming between us, still gripping him tightly, and he followed me over the edge soon after.

I must have blacked out at some point, for the next thing I remember was lying there all clean, with Cas wrapped around me, clinging onto me as if he was the one who had had the emotional breakdown, not me. I was mortified by my reaction to a simple nightmare, but at the back of my mind I had a terrible fear. What if it were actually true?

+~+~+

I had the next day off work, which was just as well as I felt exhausted by the previous night. God bless Cas, he was the angel he was named after that day, realizing my need for frequent touches of reassurance and staying home to be with me. When he did have to go out to the post office, he asked me to go with him, and back at the house he remained constantly close. I did not deserve such devotion, but I silently determined to at least try to be worthy of it.

We arrived punctually at Balthazar Novak's house that evening, though it was a close-run thing. My day off had been curtailed by a late patient, whom the surgery had telegraphed me to go and visit at her home in Mayfair, and I had had to race home and change in less than five minutes. On the plus side she had paid cash, and also I looked far tidier than my friend, whose blue tie was haphazard as ever, and whose hair looked like he had just rolled out of bed. I wondered if he looked like that just to provoke his brother, or to make me spend the evening thinking lustful thoughts. Probably both, I decided.

A footman opened the door to us, and showed us immediately into the main room where Balthazar himself was standing by the fire. Cas raised a questioning eyebrow at his brother.

“He is here”, Balthazar smiled.

Barely a few minutes later, a footman announced the advent of Mr. James Collins. I had seen his photograph (Balthazar had brought it over), and my first impression was that the camera did sometimes lie. He was taller than I had imagined, and had a sinister appearance which was not helped by the dark glasses and half of his face still partly bandaged after the attack. He used a stout stick to walk with as he moved towards us.

“Mr. Collins!” Balthazar beamed. “Please take a seat. I shall have drinks served straight away.

The man nodded, and sat down heavily in one of the fireside seats. 

“The doctor said I no longer need the crutches”, he said, placing his walking-stick beside his chair, “just this.”

“That is good”, I smiled.

I saw the brothers exchange a meaningful look. Something was going on here.

“I am sorry that I am not yet back to full health, gentlemen”, our visitor intoned, “but I am restored enough to be able to fulfill the functions requested of me. If they still want me, of course.”

“We are grateful for that”, Balthazar said, sipping something bright green and foul-looking. “We had thought we might have to employ your brother instead.”

The man seemed to stiffen.

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Novak”, he said quietly, “Jason and I do not get on. Are our foreign guests not here yet?”

“I asked them to arrive at six”, Balthazar said. “There was someone my brother and I wished you to meet first.”

A footman knocked at the door and was admitted. The same one as earlier, I noted. 

“Your other guest is here, sir”, he intoned gravely.

“Please show him in”, Cas said. 

I stared in shock. Apart from the carefully-styled hair and correctly-positioned tie, it could easily have been Cas' twin brother standing there. I gasped, a noise echoed from the fireside chair. Mr. Collins shot up without grasping his stick, drew out a gun and shot straight at our new visitor. He could not miss.

IV

I blinked. Nothing had happened. The new man – indisputably the real James Collins, I realized – continued to stand there. 

Our first guest fired again. And again.

Still nothing. Balthazar came across and quietly removed the revolver from his grasp.

“I may have neglected to mention, Mr. 'Jason' Collins”, he said silkily, “that the footman who took your coat when you came in is in fact one of our capital city's most able pickpockets. He was able to extract your gun from your jacket pocket, and replace it with a similar one. Similar save for the fact that it only has blanks!” 

The man went white, and made to bolt for the door, but Balthazar grabbed him and threw him back onto the chair. In which, which my and Cas' help, he was very soon tightly handcuffed.

“The brother?” I asked, shocked.

“Mr. Jason Collins, younger brother of James over there, and himself a moderately decent translator”, Cas said, tightening the bonds to prevent any chance of escape.

“You knew?” I hissed angrily.

We were interrupted by the arrival of three constables, who had clearly been waiting for just such an eventuality. Mr. Jason Collins was soon being led firmly away, tightly bound and handcuffed to one of them.

“I suspected”, Cas said. “It was the only way for the whole thing to make sense.”

“It's not making much sense to me!” I grumbled. 

“I shall go and take Mr. James Collins for some refreshments, and then receive our foreign guests”, Balthazar smirked. “Cass.... Castiel can explain things to you.”

He led the shorter man out. I pouted, but sat back to hear what my friend had to say.

+~+~+

“You are upset”, Cas said.

“You could have trusted me”, I said crossly. “You have in the past.”

We were sat in our fireside chairs in Baker Street, a roaring fire keeping out the damp spring chill. I knew I had no real reason to feel betrayed, but human emotions are rarely rational, especially mine where the blue-eyed genius was concerned. He reached across to me, and gently placed his long hand on mine.

“I had very little time”, he said. “What with arranging everything, and your being late from your patient. I did not want you to go in with half the facts. Besides, you are too good a person to be a good liar. That is one of the things I love about you.”

I looked down at his hand, and felt childishly like pulling back from him. But I did not. He was right, damn him! With only some of the information, there may have been a danger that I could have done something stupid and risked endangering him. Or Balthazar, though I did not care about him.

And he had used the L-word. Not directly about me, but still..... I smiled a small smile at him, and was rewarded by a look of relief.

“Tell me everything now, then”, I said. 

He pulled back and sat in his own chair. 

“From the start, I suspected that either Mr. James Collins' mother or brother may have been in on whatever was happening”, he said. “Fortuitously however, the mother was visiting a friend in Glamorganshire at the time of the attack, so that ruled her out. The brother, on the other hand, was 'walking back from a tavern', and could easily have got a cab to where the attack took place. Though I suspect he was picked up by his former valet, who subsequently helped him. It was Jason Collins who got him his cottage, and he would feel obliged to help out his former master.”

“The main point of the attack was to remove Mr. James Collins and allow his brother to take his place for he meeting”, he went on. “Mr. Jason Collins would then willfully mis-translate something that would make the Greeks look to be at fault. Openly insulting someone on British soil would have made British public opinion less likely to back the Greeks this time, and the government is naturally pro-Turk. The new Greek state is still small, and Mr. Jason Collins banked on them losing the war and having to return their part of Thessaly.”

“There was indeed an attack on his brother outside the Turkish baths, but what happened next was very different to what the fake 'James Collins' told the police. Fortunately the man was averse to actually killing his brother, and merely kept him drugged at the home of one of his old servants. I spent my day out visiting the three who had retired or left recently, and only found Mr, Spratt last of all. I also found poor Mr. James Collins, though I could not converse with him at the time as he was still drugged. With Balthazar's help I extracted him, and impressed on the former valet that if he mentioned my visit to his employer, then he himself would likely stand charges alongside him. Capital charges.”

“Thus Mr. Jason Collins has to spend a few days impersonating his brother. It is not actually that difficult. His former valet has bandaged him up, and he tells the servants at their house that he is suffering from shock, and needs long periods of rest. That explains any unusual behaviour, and his heavily bandaged face and dark glasses make him unrecognizable. I spoke to the servants, and none of them saw both brothers together at any point after the attack.”

“Jason Collins does, however, make one mistake, which was unwittingly mentioned by his new valet, Thomas Furlong, who was of course happy at his reduced workload. He stated that, like his younger brother, the master had started suffering from dandruff, and that his clothes had to be brushed more thoroughly. Jason Collins was of course using his brother's room, so he had to use his hair-brush, which transfers the dandruff onto his own head. There was also the slightly odd matter of his ordering new clothes from town immediately after the attack. He is slightly taller than his brother, so the clothes would not fit well.”

“Finally, he comes here. He is probably a little uneasy, knowing Balthazar is my brother, and my presence makes it worse, but he is sure he has covered everything, besides which he has his gun. Then his brother, who he had thought was safely drugged and some sixty miles away, appears at the door. He snaps, and fires. Blanks.”

I stared at him in admiration.

“You may have just helped to prevent a major war”, I said.

“Delayed, not prevented”, he said. “That treaty left many areas of friction, and I would not be surprised if one of them flares up sometime in the future. Our only hope must be that Great Britain itself does not get drawn in. Modern warfare is increasingly effective at killing soldiers; we are not dealing with African spear-men who obligingly run in front of a machine-gun. A pan-European war would be devastating.”

I agreed, little knowing that such a war was barely a quarter of a century away, and that Great Britain would indeed find itself a party to it. Nor that, in what would turn out to be our last case together, Cas and I would play our own parts in that war.

+~+~+

And next - the story everyone asks for more than any other unpublished case – the one with the lighthouse, the politician and the trained cormorant.....


	10. Case 28: The Great Escapist (1887)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, described elsewhere as 'the loss of the barque Sophy Anderson' and 'the case involving the lighthouse, the politician and the trained cormorant'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-bencher (n.) - a member of the House of Lords, the then still powerful upper chamber of the British parliament. They had - and still have - no (official) affiliation to any major political party.

I

And so to the one case I have had more requests for than almost all the other undocumented cases I have ever mentioned, the loss of the barque Sophy Anderson, probably better known to my readers as the story of the lighthouse, the politician and the trained cormorant. It will doubtless seem strange that such a bizarre case, which demonstrated Cas' powers so aptly, was not initially released to the general public, but I hope that on reading it all the way through, they will understand that a promise to a true lady is not one that any gentleman would break, no matter how tempting. Only now the passing of that lady to a better place, plus a further attempt by the criminal involved to prevent the story from being published, have prompted me to tell the world of a murder most strange.

And to the new Lord Keady, a reminder that if revenge is truly a dish best served cold, then I am enjoying this particular meal mightily!

+~+~+

Although the main sequence of events in this case occurred in the spring of eighteen hundred and eighty-seven, certain events some years earlier, at the start of the Hiatus, need to be described. As I am re-writing events from over thirty years later, the political landscape in particular has changed considerably, making the certainties of my youth (or rather my early- to mid-thirties) seem like another world. Which in a way it was.

In the mid-eighties, the world of politics was much more fluid that it is now, let alone the fact that the Liberal Party was still one of the two major political powers in this country, not the divided body that it has since become. Ever since the Act of Union at the start of the century, the sixty or so Irish members at Westminster had often held the balance of power between the Conservatives and Liberals, siding with whichever group gave their country (or more accurately, their wallets) the most. It was thus possible for someone from the 'Irish bloc' to serve both parties in government, and one of the people who did that was an Irish alpha called Mr. Bareth Monaghan, a member of parliament who sided with Gladstone when elected at a by-election in late eighteen hundred and eighty-three. Quite what services he provided remain unclear, but within two years he had been elevated to the peerage, sitting as Lord Keady in the Lords as a cross-bencher though more often than not backing the Liberals. 

A year or so before the events described here, Lord Keady had been involved in two major scandals, either of which could have ruined him. First was a sordid affair involving the preferential issuing of government contracts, in which he was almost certainly guilty, yet he managed to escape with his reputation intact. Barely a week later came the far more serious accusation that he had slept with a prostitute and had a child by her in London. The evidence seemed conclusive, but then the lady in question retracted her allegations, and another witness claimed Lord Keady had been with him at the time of conception. It was widely thought that he was guilty, but there was no proof and he survived, leading the Times to dub him 'The Great Escapist'.

Two months later, the Grand Old Man (or as Disraeli snidely called his deadly rival, God's Only Mistake!) was defeated at the general election by the Conservatives under Lord (later the Marquess of) Salisbury, prime minister at the time of the events in this story. Lord Keady of course suddenly exhibited a tendency to support the Conservatives - I know; who'd have thought it? - and less than a year after the election the Great Escapist was being widely touted in the papers as possibly the next Lord Chancellor, leader of the Lords and one of the highest positions in the land. That, for the son of a fruit-seller from Ulster, was quite an achievement.

Until his son's actions threatened to bring down everything he had worked for, and the two of them resorted to cold-blooded murder.

+~+~+

It was exactly one month to go before the Golden Jubilee celebrations were to begin. I was for once reading the society pages at the breakfast-table – there was nothing interesting on the front page, and my first client was living quite nearby, so there was no hurry – when Cas entered, as morning-miserable as ever.

“Coffee!” he almost snarled. I chuckled and pushed his cup over to him, the sugar already being there. I had heard the thump from his falling out of his bed a minute ago. I swear, he was actually getting worse in the mornings!

All right, he may have been tired after waking me up an hour ago and demanding sex there and then, but if I was the one responsible for how he looked, I could live with that! He imbibed the sugary liquid and sighed contentedly, before looking across at me.

“Society pages again, Winchester?” he said teasingly.

If he could tease me, he was fully awake. I did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

“There is another speculative piece about Lord Keady”, I said. 

“The Times hates the man”, Cas yawned, rolling his shoulders. “What has he done this time?”

“Not so much him, but his son, Ruaraidh”, I said, quietly thinking it typical of the man that he had spelled his son's name the Irish rather than the English way; apparently he hated it that the newspaper always called him 'Barry'). “An alpha buck if ever there was one. He went to Brazil two years ago to pursue a number of family interests there, and returned last autumn. The paper says that he may have been implicated in a scandal there, and that it involved a lady. That would be the second family dalliance within months. Their luck cannot hold out forever.”

Cas was not normally interested in the society pages, so I was surprised when he gestured me to read the article to him. I did so.

“'This columnist understands that a major scandal may be brewing over Ruaraidh Monaghan, the son and heir to The Great Escapist himself, Barry, Lord Keady'”, I read. “'Our man in Rio de Janeiro states that a certain flame-haired lady, known only as 'Maria', is coming to England to discuss certain matters with the young buck. As to precisely what these are, we do not have that information, but it must most certainly be grave if a single lady is prepared to venture a Transatlantic crossing.” 

“Very true, but foolish”, was Cas' comment.

I looked at him in surprise. He finished his coffee before continuing. 

“I have had my eye on 'the Great Escapist' for some time”, he said, pouring himself a second cup. “The man has a brilliant criminal mind, but fortunately he is both lazy and blinkered. I am almost certain he would do nothing unless, as in this case, either he or his family were threatened. Does your article say when the lady in question is to arrive in England?”

I scanned down the page.

“No”, I said. “You think Lord Keady may try to stop her?”

“I very much fear so”, my friend said. “There are only so many ways she could make the crossing, so it would be easy for him to work out which one she might use. I hope I am wrong.”

+~+~+

A week later, I extracted myself from the human octopus and went to get him his coffee. I returned with that and the morning paper, and smiled. He had wrapped himself tightly into the blankets in my absence, leaving me none, and was sleeping contentedly in his little cocoon. I took off my dressing-gown – Cas had a philosophical objection to clothing in bed, claiming it wasted time – and managed to squeeze myself in next to the over-wrapped angel. I read my paper in silence, and my attention was drawn to a small article on the front page.

'The barque Sophy Anderson, out of Liverpool, has been lost with all hands off the Lizard in Cornwall', I read silently, not wishing to disturb the sleeping octopus next to me. 'It appears that she strayed too close to the coast whilst approaching the peninsula, and was wrecked near Mullion Cove. Her cargo of Mediterranean glassware has, regrettably, been looted by locals. No survivors have been reported, although the lifeboat is said to have been missing, so it is possible that some of the passengers and crew made it to land. 'The ship left Lisbon, its third port of call, on the eighteenth, and made good speed to its fourth stop at Queenstown, Ireland on the twentieth. She departed that port around mid-day, and made for London, sailing around Land's End. However, a misjudgement appears to have resulted in the ship attempting to turn before passing the Lizard itself, with fatal consequences.'

“And that is why we are expecting a client, Winchester.”

I let out a most unmanly squeak. Cas was still wrapped in his cocoon, so there was no way he could have known what I was reading.

“How did you know?” I demanded, feeling more than a little put-out.

He scuttled closer to me, and pulled some of the blankets over me. I found myself with six foot of muscular angel on top of me, and he started rubbing himself slowly up and down against me. I groaned.

“How did you know I was reading that article?” I demanded, trying to focus on the matter in hand. Talking of hands, he was running his hands across my chest, and gently tweaking at my nipples, which was downright unfair. He knew how sensitive they were.

“You always do a faint whistle through your teeth when you read something interesting”, he explained, reaching one hand down to tease my already hardened cock. “And I learnt of the ship's loss in a telegram from Balthazar late yesterday evening, so I knew that article would be there today.”

“Cheating!” I complained. 

He suddenly increased the friction between us, whilst simultaneously jerking me off and continuing to tweak my nipples. I gave up on rational thought and just went along for the ride. I was about to hit my climax when....

“Well, if you think I am cheating”, he said airily, “then I had better stop.”

I grabbed him firmly back to me as he made to move away.

“Don't you dare!” I almost snarled. 

He snickered, and resumed his slow rubbing, his hand not giving my cock anything like enough. I whined.

“Cas!”

And without warning, he suddenly accelerated both the rubbing against me and the ribbing of my cock, whilst somehow managing to reach down and actually bite my left nipple! The bastard! I would have complained again, had I not been in the throes of an orgasm the likes of which I would long remember. I sighed happily as he too came between us, and we lay there for a moment, too happy to move.

II

Some time later, when I could do the more complicated things in life like walk, talk and move without my joints aching, he told me more about the case. 

“The loss of the Sophy Anderson”, he said, piling a veritable mountain of bacon onto his plate (little wonder that Mrs. Harvelle had joked she was thinking of having a pig in the back garden!). “A Mrs. Evangeline Hurst wishes to consult with me on that very matter.”

“In what way is she linked to the sinking of a ship?” I asked.

“Doubtless we shall find out when she arrives at nine”, he said. “Indeed, from the tone of her telegram, I fully expect her to be early. Perhaps you should send a boy to the surgery to tell them you have been delayed a little?”

I scowled. The only thing more annoying about his automatic assumption that I would fall in with his every wish was the fact that he was right, damn him!

+~+~+

He was also right about Mrs. Hurst. At ten minutes to the hour Mrs. Harvelle informed us that she had arrived, and we were ready to receive her? Cas replied in the affirmative, as we waited her arrival.

The first and most obvious thing about our visitor was the mourning clothes she was wearing. Cas guided her to a seat, and sat opposite her. I took my usual place at the table, notebook at the ready.

“It is a dark case I lay before you today”, Mr. Novak”, she said, and I noted immediately that there was a faint foreign accent in her voice, possibly Hispanic. “Have you read in the newspapers about the loss of the Sophy Anderson?”

“Doctor Winchester has relayed that story to me”, Cas said. “May I assume you have some links with the speculation surrounding Lord Keady?”

She lifted her veil and regarded him with dark eyes. I realized she was younger than I had first thought, probably not more than thirty, and quite beautiful. 

“My name is Evangeline Hurst”, she said. “I was born Evangelina Despoina in a small town not far from Rio de Janeiro, and when I was twenty-one I met and fell in love with my now-husband John, who is a merchant trader. My younger sister was Maria Despoina, the lady who was set to expose that blackguard Mr. Ruaraidh Monaghan, Lord Keady's son and heir.”

“Early last year, I received a letter from my sister, stating that she was pregnant and that Mr. Monaghan was the father. When it had seemed that she would lose both the baby and her life, he admitted his paternity and left her, presuming she would die. However, not only did she and her child both survive, but the admission was overheard by two of her servants, who later signed statements to that effect. She was ill for a long time, but recently recovered sufficiently to come to England and confront the man.”

“Go on”, Cas said gravely.

“Maria knew how Lord Keady worked, so she tried to keep everything secret”, our guest said. “She took a ship heading to the Iberian ports, then got off at Lisbon and boarded the Sophy Anderson, meaning to come to London. Unfortunately someone must have talked, for I read the speculation about her coming in the papers recently. She sent me a telegram from Queenstown to say that two of the crew had inexplicably been replaced, and that one of the new men quite frightened her. He had a trained cormorant in a cage, and she felt that in some way that was unlucky. My dear sister was always superstitious.....”

She stopped and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I feel it in my bones that Lord Keady is involved in some way with the wrecking of that ship”, she said firmly. “But of course, I have no proof. I am certain my sister has been murdered, and that the man behind the murder has got away with it!”

Cas reached across to pat her hand reassuringly.

“Lord Keady will already know that you have consulted us”, he said gently. “I am sure he has taken the precaution of having you followed.”

She looked even more alarmed.

“Do not panic, madam”, he said firmly. “Fortunately tomorrow is Saturday, and as Winchester is free, he can accompany me to Cornwall to investigate this matter further.”

She looked a little surprised at his agreeing to her request so readily, but smiled in gratitude. 

“I am returning to my husband's house in Hertfordshire”, she said, placing a small card on the table. “I would be grateful to learn of your findings.”

She hesitated before departing.

“John wishes us to adopt Maria's son, Ross”, she said, so quietly I barely heard her. “I know the Brazilian authorities may put up obstacles, but... he is my nephew, and we had no other family.”

“That is an honourable thing to do”, Cas smiled. “I promise that once I have definitive results, I shall telegraph them to you.

She smiled at us, bade us farewell and left. Cas turned to me.

“Winchester....” he began.

“The 8:40 from Paddington, changing at Truro and Gwinear Road”, I said promptly. “The Helston Railway opened only last month so I do not have the timetables, but if we miss the connection we can always take a cab all the way to Kynance, or the railway to Helston and a cab from there. Either way, we would arrive around one, and if you wanted to be back here the same day, we would have to leave shortly after four.”

He smiled his small smile.

“I am lucky to have you”, he said quietly, before leaning over to pick up his violin. 

I blushed, and left quickly for the surgery.

III

As things turned out, we were destined not to accomplish our Cornish venture in a single day. A spring storm had flooded the line around Weston-super-Mare, and although the train was able to plough through, the delay meant we did not reach our destination until almost four o'clock. Fortunately that still left us about three hours of daylight after we had checked into a nearby hotel.

“What exactly are we looking for?” I asked, as I struggled up a steep path that was verging on the diagonal. 

“Fire”, he answered.

“Fire?”

He stopped, so suddenly that I almost walked right into him, then veered sharply left and headed across a barren patch of moorland. The sun was out, but the strong wind was whipping up the salt from the sea and making it feel cold.

“Remember, Winchester, that this is a wreckers' coast”, he said. “The government may be stronger these days, but the locals have the advantage of always being first at the scene of a disaster. Sometimes one they have helped to cause.”

I tried to ignore my aching ankles and hastened to keep up with him, Then I stopped in my tracks. Directly in front of us was what looked like a set of gallows!

“What the....?”

Cas chuckled.

“You know your history, Winchester”, he grinned. “Remember the Spanish Armada of 1588? Warnings were flashed to London by a system of beacons, their form of telegraph.”

I looked suspiciously at the beacon. 

“That can't be that old”, I argued. “Anything made of wood in this sort of environment would rot in weeks, months at most. It must be recent.”

“Excellent, doctor!” Cas was genuinely smiling. “Anything else?”

I looked at the beacon some little time before it clicked.

“There is ash in the main part”, I said. “And scattered on the ground nearby. This beacon has been lit recently, otherwise all the wind would blow it away.”

“Even better!” Cas smiled. “We'll make a detective of you yet! Let us investigate further, and I think we may yet entangle the Great Escapist in something he cannot escape from.”

However, it seemed there was nothing more to find, apart from some rotten fish remains which seemed to fascinate Cas for some reason. We returned to the hamlet of Kynance, and our room. To my surprise, my friend said he wanted to spend some time in the local tavern, but I was tired after both a long journey and a cliff-side walk, and decided to turn in early. I slept like a log.

+~+~+

I was more than a little surprised, I must confess, when it seemed that the whole hamlet turned out to see us off the following morning. I knew that my friend was gradually achieving the recognition he so deserved – the Strand magazine had just begun publishing my story Something Wicked – but in this remote part of the world, such a reception was still surprising. Especially when it emerged that one of the locals, a sulky-looking beta called Mr. Liam Dent, was coming with us part of the way. Not willingly, judging from his expression; he did not speak, and glared at me like it was somehow my fault he was there.

We alighted from the main line train at Truro, and Cas took us straight to the offices of a local lawyer, a prosperous one judging from its size. He told me that his business there would take several hours, and I might amuse myself by wandering around the town if I so wished. I went to the cathedral, and did some window-shopping before going back to the lawyer's where I had a further half-hour wait. When Cas came out, he was alone.

“Our friend is not coming to London?” I asked.

“He is not needed”, Cas said. “And it would not be safe for him to do so. Did you manage to check the train times?”

“There is a train to Paddington in thirty-five minutes”, I said, looking at my watch. 

“Excellent!” he smiled. “This has been a most interesting adventure.”

Clearly I was not to be illuminated. I pouted, but I had not Sammy's power when it came to my face, and it had no effect on my friend. I sighed.

Our journey back was, mercifully, trouble-free, and we arrived at Baker Street in time for a late dinner. Mrs. Harvelle, bless her, had thrown together a delicious stew which only needed to be reheated, and we both devoured it eagerly. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened in Truro?” I asked later.

“Our friend was providing a witness statement”, Cas said. “I wanted it recorded and officially copied, then sent safely to a number of different locations. I am sure Lord Keady will make some future attempt to prevent the truth from emerging, and I wish to make it as difficult for him as possible.”

“I am surprised he did not have us followed to Cornwall”, I said.

Cas chuckled.

“He would have”, he said, “except I sent Henriksen a telegram asking that his men arrest the two watchers just before we left yesterday morning.”

I smiled.

“Henriksen released them today”, he said. They have doubtless reported back to their master that they managed to lose me. I will wager he was not pleased, but we will soon know either way.

“How so?” I asked.

“Because I have invited him here tomorrow, along with his son”, he said. “And hopefully, I shall then be able to deliver some good news to Mrs. Hurst. Not maybe the news she wants, but we must make the best of a bad situation.”

IV

“Lord Keady, and Mr. Monaghan.”

It was wonderful how Mrs. Harvelle could throw such complete scorn into the simple announcement of a pair of names. Both our guests looked after her in surprise, clearly bemused at how someone so far beneath them on the social ladder could talk in such a way. Lord Keady was about fifty, gaunt and with badly-dyed hair. His son was a little over twenty, tall and supercilious-looking, with mousy brown hair. He had a monocle, which I guessed was more for effect that need.

“You asked to see me, Mr. Novak”, the peer said. “Pray keep it brief. I am due at the Lords in an hour.”

“I would be delighted so to do”, Cas said with what I knew by now to be a totally false smile. “It concerns your grandson.”

Even with his pale skin, the peer turned a shade whiter.

“I have no grandson”, he said acidly.

Cas sighed.

“The result of an affair between your son here and a Brazilian lady named Maria Despoina”, he said. “He confessed to it when he thought she was dying in childbirth, and then abandoned her.”

“And you have proof of this?” the young man sneered. “Where, pray?”

Cas turned to him.

“Before I relate the sequence of events”, he said, and his tone was cold now, “I wish you to understand something, my lord. I have a signed confession from one of the parties involved, signed and delivered in front of a quality lawyer. That confession has been legally copied, and now resides in three separate and safe locations. Should circumstances arise necessitating such a move, it will be supplied free to all the principal London papers. I am sure they would be fascinated by it, especially the Times.”

The peer swallowed.

“He's bluffing, father”, the young man said scornfully.

“We shall see”, Cas said. “Even though your son thought the woman he so cruelly treated all but dead, you kept a watch on her. And when she and her baby survived, you knew there would be trouble.”

“She recovers enough to come to England, and you fear for both you and your son's future. The current Lord Chancellor is set to step down before Christmas, and you are tantalizingly close to a major office at last, and one from which you could almost certainly lever your son into the political scene alongside you. You cannot risk this woman talking.”

“Your plan revolves around two groups of people. The first I do not know, but their job is to make sure that, at a certain time, the lighthouse at the Lizard is switched off for a few hours. They are not told why, but a large sum of money will buy the silence and co-operation of most men.”

“You know that Miss Despoina's ship, the Sophy Anderson, is to put into Queenstown before going to London. Using your influence, you buy off two of the crew, and replace them with your own men, in particular a Cornishman called Nathan Dent. Though it is not he who will play a major role in the tragedy that is to befall the ship, but his companion – a trained cormorant.”

I gasped. Both our visitors looked deathly pale.

“Before the ship leaves harbour”, Cas continued, “Nathan Dent sends a telegram to his brother Liam, in the small hamlet of Kynance. This rocky bay lies a few miles west of the Lizard, and that is important. Nathan is ready to sabotage the ship to some extent, because it is vitally important to his – and your – scheme that the ship traverses the south Cornish coast in the dark. However, judging from the time on the telegram Miss Despoina herself sent from Queenstown and the subsequent wind conditions, I estimated it would be the small hours of the morning as the ship approached the Lizard. Even better, a storm was up, and the clouds obscured the moon.”

“Shortly after the ship rounds Land's End, Nathan Dent dispatches the cormorant which, as trained, flies straight to the cottage of his brother, not far from the beacon he maintains against the tempestuous Cornish weather. The bird is duly rewarded with a meal of fish, the remains of which we found near the beacon. Liam Dent lights the beacon, and with the Lizard light out, the ship's captain steers around that light, then turns east-north-east, on a course which should keep him clear of the coast most of the way to the Straits of Dover. Instead, of course, he steers his ship straight onto the Cornish rocks.”

He fixed the peer with a sharp glare.

“Knowing the way you work sir, I regret to say I am all but sure that, before he abandoned ship, Nathan Dent made sure that Miss Despoina would not leave the vessel alive. Now, however, we have the signed confessions of one of the men involved – no, do not look at me like that; I am not going to say which one – and much as it pains me to say it, I have to offer you a deal.”

“Cas!” I protested.

“Publicity will only harm Mrs. Hurst and her family, let alone the boy”, he said. “Lord Keady, the deal is this. You will not accept the Lord Chancellorship. Your son may enter politics if he so wishes, but he too will not attempt to secure high office. You and your agents will not harm Mrs. Hurst and her family, including your grandson, in any way, shape or form. She will bring the boy to England and raise him as her own, and neither you nor your son will contact him. He will have to be told the truth when he is twenty-one and, if he so wishes, he may then choose to contact you. That is his prerogative. I must tell you that copies of the confession are in places you will never find them, and if you break any of these conditions, then Doctor Winchester will publish a full and frank account of every foul thing that you have done.”

The peer drew himself up, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike Cas. Then he seemed to slump, and almost snarled before sweeping round and heading out of the door. His son followed, shooting us a last angry glare.

“I wish I could ruin the man”, Cas said, sinking into his chair. “God, Winchester, I would love to ruin the man! But innocent people would get hurt, and we owe it to that dear Hertfordshire lady to make sure that her sister did not die in vain, and that a small boy can have a life that he deserves. This way, I can promise her a safe life for her and her loved ones, including her nephew.”

I remembered how angry I had been not that long ago when I had considered him to be applying his own rules of justice, and this time, I felt for the man. I came across and out my hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

“You acted for the best”, I said firmly. “I would have had to do the same.”

He reached back and placed a hand over mine.

“Thank you, my friend”, he said quietly. “That.... it means a lot.”

We stood there for some time, sharing a moment together.

+~+~+

Postscript: Break-ins at both the surgery and our lawyer's offices followed within a month of this case, but Cas had hidden the records well, and after a warning-note sent to Monaghan House, the attacks ceased. Ross Despoina arrived safely in England before the year was out, and was subsequently raised by his aunt and uncle. They offered to adopt him formally once he came of age, but he declined, although he said he was grateful for all they had done. He is a fine young man, and currently works at a bank in the City. He chose to never contact his father or grandfather.

Mr. Hurst died three years ago, and Mrs. Hurst followed him into the hereafter last year. That may have lain the matter to rest, but when Ruaraidh Monaghan, who became the new Lord Keady upon his father's death in 1908, announced in the papers recently that he was considering himself as a future prime minister, Cas contacted Ross Despard (as he had become) for permission to publish. This coincided with a further attempt to seize my records of the case, which doubtless the new Lord Keady thought successful. He really should have known that both Cas and I had anticipated such a move, and all his agents seized were copies. The originals are timed to reach the principal London newspapers at the same time that this story is published.

Hah!


End file.
